


Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

by thecrimsonmonarch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Harry, M/M, Post - Goblet of Fire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2595593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrimsonmonarch/pseuds/thecrimsonmonarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What disguise could be better than that of an average Gryffindor with anger management issues? Well, not really "average," since he is Harry Freakin' Potter and everything he appears to be is a lie.</p><p>(Abandoned)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_24 June, 1995_

Monlight illuminated the muggle cemetery where a group of robed and masked figures encircled a bound black-haired boy and a tall serpentine creature.

The  _creature_ raised one of his long white fingers and put it very close to the boy's cheek.

Harry Potter didn't flinch. Instead, his emerald green eyes met his captor's bright crimson ones in a silent staring contest. Lord Voldemort, used to people cowering in fear in front of him, felt his curiosity piqued. He arched one brow – where it would be anyway if he wasn't in his scaly form – questioningly. The-Boy-Who-Lived merely lowered his eyes and pursed his lips. The entirety of the exchange was hidden from view and the Death Eaters were too scared and nervous to notice anything amiss.

The Dark Lord was a bit wary now, seeing his supposed "enemy" acting so strangely. But he was on a roll and he needed to finish the show he started.

"…but no matter," he continued, like he didn't even stop in the first place. "I can touch him now."

Harry felt the cold tip of a finger touch his forehead, his  _scar_ , and thought his head would burst with the surge of raw power. Magic was influenced by objectives, often categorized into Dark and Light, but  _this_ , this was simply  _magic_  - pure, unprocessed magic. Overwhelmed, a guttural groan vibrated in his throat.

Voldemort laughed in his ear, breath fanning over the sensitive skin of Harry's neck. Then he took his finger away, and continued addressing the Death Eaters.

Harry lost himself for a while. He was startled at his body's reaction (to a mere touch!) and a small part of him couldn't help but wonder at how a more intimate contact would feel like. He bit down on his lip, forcing himself to focus. He was on a tight schedule and he needed to settle certain matters. Nevertheless, he knew that it wouldn't help his cause if he interrupted the Dark Lord's soliloquy.

So he waited.

Voldemort spoke of his years of disappearance and explained why, in the first place, he disappeared.

Harry couldn't help but be ensnared by the tale, and before he knew it...

"... and here he is... the boy you all believed had been my downfall..."

Harry saw Voldemort raise his wand. Somehow, he knew that he was seconds away from receiving one of the Dark Lord's infamous  _Crucios_.

He figured that this was a good time to start talking.

* _Lord Voldemort, I have a proposition to make,*_ he hissed in Parseltongue.

It worked. The Dark Lord slowly lowered his wand and the Death Eaters gasped. They had heard rumors but it was still a shock to see someone else beside their Lord speak in the tongue of snakes. Voldemort stepped closer to Harry.

They stared at each other, both unwilling to back down. Crimson clashed with green; the Dark Lord probing,  _searching_  Harry's mind. He narrowed his eyes when he only found an empty box. No occlumency barriers, no false memories.

Just an empty box.

He quickly retreated from Harry's mind. He had never encountered anyone who could build a near-empty mindspace before - _except_ from himself, that is. He was beginning to doubt the stories he had heard about Harry Potter. A Gryffindor and Dumbledore's man through and through, they say. Average and impulsive, the Harry Potter he had formed in his mind was seemingly a far cry from the boy in front of him. This boy was powerful and was hiding _something_.

Lord Voldemort loathed not knowing.

 _*You intrigue me, Harry Potter,*_ he hissed back, not missing the triumphant spark in the boy's eyes.

He turned around and faced his Death Eaters.

"I hope I have satisfied your curiosities, my friends," Voldemort said in English. "I will call you again." He waved his hand and some of the Death Eaters looked a bit lost and confused while the smarter ones disapparated immediately. Soon, it was only Harry, the Dark Lord, and his "loyal servant."

"Untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand," Voldemort said, his gaze never leaving the Avada-green eyes of his enemy.

The-Boy-Who-Lived just stared back and smiled in reply.

Once he was unbound and armed with his wand, the Dark Lord clutched his left arm in a tight grip. Then, the both of them vanished in a swirl of colors, leaving Peter Pettigrew in a deserted cemetery in Little Hangleton.


	2. Chapter 2

In a small café in London, two young men were quickly becoming the center of attention. Despite the lateness of the hour, many were still out and they can't help but eye the pair. One wore flowing black robes while the other was clothed in a slightly dirtied red sweater with a torn sleeve and black pants. Most merely assumed that they had attended a costume party.

They were sitting in a secluded booth in the corner. Both were tall, thin and had silky black hair. They looked somehow similar, like close relatives or even brothers at first glance, but if you studied them closely, you'd see the differences.

The taller one, looking around twenty, had a dark brown tinge to his slicked back collar-length hair when it caught the light. He had that proud, aristocratic look with his defined features: perfectly shaped eyebrows, thin, pale pink lips, straight narrow nose, chiseled jaw and high cheekbones. But what would really draw you in was his intense, brooding brown eyes that would look red when you weren't looking at them directly. Meanwhile, the younger one - who was probably still a minor - had a nest of adorable, rumpled raven-black hair that gave him a cross between a cute kid who just got out of bed in the morning and a devilish boy who, well, also just got out of  _bed_ after a session of… hair rumpling. The corners of his small mouth were upturned in a seemingly perpetual state of grinning, which drew notice to his dimpled cheeks. He winked at anyone he caught staring at him, his emerald green eyes twinkling in mischief behind his black square-rimmed glasses and sending the ones on the receiving end of his winks blushing. The elder boy remained stoic, frowning at the younger's behaviour.

Once they had decided on their order, the taller one beckoned the blushing waitress.

"A cup of black coffee," he drawled.

"And a glass of orange juice for me," the green-eyed boy added.

The waitress blushed even redder. "Would that be all?" she asked in breathless voice.

The taller one nodded irritably and waved her away before his companion could make the muggle melt in a puddle of goo.

When the waitress had left, he drew a long, thin stick from his sleeve. He made a sharp, swishing motion with it and the younger male in front of him immediately assumed a serious expression.

* _Start talking,*_ he hissed menacingly.

The boy arched his brow, amused at the paranoia the Dark Lord showed but approving nonetheless. He slightly bowed his head and hissed back his reply.

_*I ask to join your side, Lord Voldemort.*_

Voldemort, getting used to the boy's tendency to do something unexpected, managed to maintain his expressionless façade. Underneath it all, though, his thoughts were spinning. Was this a trap? If not, what the hell happened to the dumb old bore's Golden Boy? What was wrong with Harry Potter? Or, in his case, what had gone  _right_ and made the boy a potential ally? He had a lot of questions and damn it all if he didn't receive answers soon.

Harry, upon sensing the Dark Lord's irritation, felt it wise to start explaining.

_*Lord Vol -*_

* _Call me Tom when I'm in this form.*_

The boy frowned but did what was asked of him.

_*Then you may call me Stoirm, Tom.*_

Tom tilted his head at the side at the mention of the alias. Harry merely smirked, as if challenging him to figure something out. But before Tom could say anything, "Stoirm" continued.

 _*You are, of course, aware of my antics of the past four years. Harry James Potter, otherwise known as The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Have-His-Fucking-Name-Hyphenated-And-Capitalized-At-The-Start-Of-Every-Fucking-Word: a muggle-raised boy, sorted into the House of impulsive idiots, Gryffindor. Thwarted the Dark Lord's early return by protecting the Philisopher's Stone. Re-discovered the Chamber of Secrets and destroyed the "evil" diary in his second year, along with the bloody basilisk. Third year - was hunted down by Azkaban-escapee Sirius Black,_ also,  _battled a horde of fucking Dementors._ Now _competing in the fucking Tri-wizard tournament despite being underage,*_ he paused and leaned forward for effect.

The Dark Lord, amused as he was at the young wizard's obvious love for profanity, remained still, refusing to get sucked into whatever game the boy was playing at.

Harry grinned and, even though he knew he was playing with fire, leaned closer still. Tom could now feel the boy's warm breath on his left cheek.

* _What if I told you it was all a show?*_ he whispered in a slow and breathy hiss right beside Tom's ear.

A small part of Tom noticed how intimate they probably looked from afar. Harry was so close he could smell the mixture of sweat and blood and who knows what else on the boy's smooth, creamy skin and he was strangely tempted to bite down on the bared neck and trail kisses down to the peeking collarbones. He wasn't this easily-distracted and he blamed his technically newborn body. The murmured hisses didn't help either.

But the larger part of him, the rational part, had processed what Harry said.

"Explain," he demanded in English.

Harry noted the sudden change in language.

 _'I wonder,'_ he thought, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He chuckled lowly, thinking that perhaps he had finally lost the small amount of sanity left in him. He licked the Dark Lord's earlobe.

Voldemort's left hand moved in a blur. He grabbed Harry's chin gruffly and his eyes widened minutely at the unexpected static in the touch.

He had felt something in the graveyard earlier when he touched the boy, had felt something again when the boy bloody  _licked_ his ear. Both instances, he easily ignored at first, thinking that it was only his new body's excited nerves. But now, it was unmistakable. His arm felt charged and he was caught off guard by the sweet tingling he received from the direct contact. Surprise gave way to confusion and confusion gave way to anger. His narrowed eyes bled red as his eye glamour slowly dissolved.

"You are playing a very dangerous game,  _child,_ " Tom growled. He roughly let go of his grip on the boy.

Red marks decorated Harry's cheeks but it made him no less threatening when his demeanor changed and a cold, chilling presence replaced his casual air.

"I may be a child but  _I can kill you_. I'm not the only one playing a dangerous game."

He had hoped to at least broach the topic he intended to discuss with the Dark Lord, but it wasn't a conversation meant to be had in a bad temper. Besides, it was getting late. He still had to return to Hogwarts.

Harry stood up. He glanced at the Dark Lord and saw the barely controlled anger. He silently chided himself for his actions. He had been pushing the man on edge the whole time and he would be lying if he said he didn't take a sick pleasure in it. The Dark Lord was strongly affecting him, the man's magic addling his usually level-headed mind. But still, this was the man whose side Harry wished to join. He would need to act more carefully next time.

Harry gave a quick bow. He was in mid-step towards the exit when Tom stood up and gripped his chin again. Sharp nails dug into his skin and Tom grazed his thumbnail along Harry's left cheek, hard enough to draw blood. Harry's eyes fluttered, feeling the pain like a drug, overtaking his senses. Tom leaned down and pressed his lips on his cheek as he licked the wound, blood and all.

Then, Tom suddenly stepped away and disapparated with a mocking "Until next time,  _Stoirm."_

It all happened in less than five seconds, and for a moment, Harry stood there, stunned, beside their table.

" _Bastard,"_ he cursed. There he was, left alone in a Muggle café, feeling extremely hot and bothered, with a crowd of equally hot and bothered muggles who saw  _everything_  and obviously required  _obliviating_.

He (illegally) made a quick work of it and apparated (also illegally) to the now-empty graveyard in Little Hangleton. He expertly schooled his expression into one of shock and despair before retrieving the Tri-wizard Cup and Cedric Diggory's lifeless body. Immediatedely, they were portkeyed back to Hogwarts. The Headmaster rushed towards him, face filled with worry and concern and Harry fought down the laugh bubbling up his throat. The old coot was just so easy. Really, Hogwarts was losing its fun. He mentally sighed and hugged Diggory's corpse tighter.

Let the show continue.


	3. Chapter 3

_5 July, 1995_

Draco Malfoy paced back and forth across the room. His parents had been on edge lately and he had a guess as to why.

The Dark Lord.

The Wizarding World fell into chaos when Harry Potter said Lord Voldemort was back. Most witches and wizards called Potter a liar but Draco was not an idiot. He could see the signs before him. He knew something big was going to happen. A storm was brewing and he didn't expect the calm to last long.

* * *

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was worried for dear Harry. The Dark Lord was back and it was time to reinstate the Order. He wouldn't tell the boy yet, of course. Harry was still too young, too delicate. He would have to forbid Harry's friends to divulge information. He was best kept in the dark. The teenager might get carried away and do something rash, something dangerous but endearingly Gryffindor. His Golden Boy need not be stressed out. Let him bask in love and peace, for that is all he would need to defeat the evil Dark Lord. And if he did not listen to Dumbledore…

Albus chuckled happily, blue eyes ever-twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.

Harry  _always_  listened. The mere thought of him not listening to the Headmaster was laughable. He was such a sweet boy. Warm, friendly and extremely modest.

The perfect pawn.

Albus Dumbledore knew best and those who didn't agree with him obviously needed a little push to the right direction. After all, everything the old wizard did was for the greater good.

* * *

Harry James Potter returned to Number 4 Privet Drive exhausted. The tournament, the meeting with the Dark Lord, the mass  _obliviate_ , the damage control, the traumatized-boy act, the slander and libel, and the long train ride home all had taken their toll on him. He just wanted to hibernate all throughout the summer if it was possible.

But he had things to do and he was finally, at least temporarily, out of the Headmaster's claws.

He pressed the doorbell and stood still for a few seconds before the door opened. He immediately went in and eyed the inhabitants of the house.

"Welcome home, Harry," Vernon, Petunia and Dudley Dursley chorused in flat voices.

"Thank you, dear Uncle, Aunt, and cousin," Harry replied in a sing-song voice.

His relatives appeared gaunt and soulless, more like Azkaban inmates rather than a muggle suburban family, except Sirius was a former inmate and he looked far better than the Dursleys. His Uncle and cousin specially had been fat cows in the past, but thanks to him, they had "thinned down" quite spectacularly.

He smiled cruelly at his blank-eyed relatives and asked, "Have you missed me?"

"Yes, Master," they chorused again.

"Would Master like dinner?" Petunia inquired.

"I am quite knackered, actually. I'll eat tomorrow morning," Harry said as he climbed the stairs up to his room to sleep. "Bring my stuff to the storage room," he added in a yawn at the male Dursleys.

Vernon and Dudley carried his luggage in their mouths like the dogs they were. Harry had cut their arms when he was four years old to "save space." Apparently, cutting their arms off had been a great idea because they also started eating less, providing Harry with more food. Not a year had passed before both Vernon and Dudley were almost as thin as Petunia.

They stored his belongings in the adjacent room. Then, like marionettes, they jerkily returned downstairs and, upon receiving no further orders from their Master, the Dursleys returned to their room, the three of them squeezed together like sardines in the cupboard under the stairs.

Harry, meanwhile, sank into a dreamless sleep in the largest room in the house, the former bedroom of his Aunt and Uncle, that had been his since he was two years old.

His last conscious thought was ' _It's good to be home_.'

* * *

Lord Voldemort was in a foul mood and even the densest Death Eaters noticed that something was wrong. He had been throwing the  _Cruciatus_ like candies at Halloween.

More than a week had passed and the Potter boy was still nowhere in sight. His answers remained unanswered and he was so frustrated at being practically clueless that he almost went to Potter himself to demand answers. Then he had remembered how Potter acted and he felt justified with his temper. The boy might be powerful, but he was too  _untamed_ to join the Death Eaters. Yes, the boy observed proper courtesy, but once given a bit of independence, he had gone a bit over the top.

And the boy was too bloody insolent!

 _Stoirm_ , hah! Once he had gone back to Riddle Manor, it struck him that Potter might not be pertaining to the standard "storm," but the Irish "stoirm," which means the same  _but had an extra letter._  When he realized this, he instantly knew that the boy had been mocking Tom's self-given name, the anagram of his birth name.  _Voldemort_  meant "Flight from Death" and the brat's chosen alias was an anagram of  _Mortis_ , which was Latin for "Death." The insolent little shit had insinuated that  _he_ , Lord Voldemort, flees from Harry  _Bloody_  Potter!  _He_ , the most powerful Dark Lord that existed in centuries! _  
_

Simply remembering made him want to go on a rampage.

His musings were put to a stop when Wormtail scurried in, shaking in fear.

" _What_?" he sharply asked, his temper getting the best of him.

"M-my Lord. Po-Potter is outside," he whimpered.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes and turned his back on Wormtail.

Wormtail only saw the back of his master and the casual wave of his hand as he said, "Let him in."

"B-but it's Potter, my Lord!"

Voldemort turned sharply around to face Wormtail.

"Did you not hear me, Wormtail?" he slowly asked in a low voice.

"I-I d-did, My Lord. I'm sorry, my Lord," Wormtail squeaked before backing out of the room.

Voldemort sat regally on his chair; legs crossed and interlaced hands on top of his right knee. He smiled cruelly as his serpentine face morphed into a 20-year-old Tom Riddle.

Potter, or  _Stoirm_  as he fancy himself called, would now  _seriously_  be unable to get out of here until Lord Voldemort's curiosity had been satisfied.

He smiled wider. This should be fun.


	4. Chapter 4

A not-so-Harry-Potter Harry entered Riddle Manor's study.

Fire crackled merrily in the fireplace and bathed the room in orange. Shadows flickered across the walls.

Harry's eyes slowly adjusted to the warm light and tried to read the expression of the imposing figure in front of the hearth.

The Dark Lord was behind a large desk and had his back to the flames, making it hard to see anything beside his silhouette at first. Voldemort used it to his advantage and eyed the familiar yet unfamiliar young man in front of him.

This Harry was without glasses and was wearing black formal robes over a plain, dark grey turtleneck. His lower body was clad in black trousers and his feet tucked in in polished combat boots. His green eyes reflected the dancing flames and one could be given the impression that the Killing Curse was just lurking behind those eyes, ready to strike. He looked calm, composed and older than his fourteen years. The only hint of the impudent boy that the Dark Lord met days past was the nest of untameable jet-black hair that strangely didn't clash with the boy's formal get-up.

Harry, unable to see the Dark Lord's face at this position, decided to act on it. He bowed at his waist and greeted Voldemort with a clear "My Lord." He remained bowed and waited for the Dark Lord's permission for him to stand straight again.

Lord Voldemort rose from his seat and sauntered towards Harry. He observed the young man and circled around him in a predatory manner. When he completed the circle, he stood close in front of Harry and said in an unaffected, almost bored, voice, "Points for effort, Potter, but I told you to call me Tom when in this form."

Harry, still bowing, tilted his head up to stare at the Dark Lord. True enough, the young face of Tom Riddle greeted him instead of the reptilian monster plaguing the nightmares of many.

"And I told you to call me Stoirm, Tom," he smirked with a gleam in his eyes.

 _'Ah, there he is,'_ Tom thought. He caught Harry's eyes and noticed how fast they always seemed to find themselves in a sensual position. Harry was bowing down at the waist but was holding his head up, drawing notice to his slender neck, his adam's apple accentuated by the tilt of his head. Tom, with his head held high, stared down at the boy and couldn't help getting sidetracked by the way Harry's face was too close to his abdomen.

Harry seemed to follow his train of thought because his eyes took on a mischievous glint and he stuck his tongue out and, slowly and provocatively, licked his upper lip.

Tom growled and struck. His left hand was grabbing the boy's hair backwards and his right held his wand to the boy's chin. Both were once again surprised at the intense and overwhelming feeling of raw magic sparked by the skin on skin contact. Harry's eyes glazed over and Tom fought to ignore the pleasant electricity travelling between them. The Dark Lord should  _always_ be in control and Harry Potter was proving to be something short of a weakness of his and that annoyed him. He lightly trailed his wand's point down Harry's neck and stopped at the hollow of the boy's collarbones. Tom increased the pressure on his wand and he saw Harry's mouth open slightly, letting out a low moan.

"I warned you before," he rasped out, his voice sounding husky even to his own ears. That just irritated him more and added to his slowly boiling anger. " _Crucio_."

As soon as he said the incantation, he released his hold on Harry and stepped back.

The-Boy-Who-Lived's legs buckled under him and he was left kneeling on the floor. His back arched, and pain, glorious pain, beyond anything Harry had ever experienced, coursed through his body, ferociously assaulting every inch of him. He screamed with reckless abandon. A small part of him that wasn't intoxicated with pain yet noted everything and was torn between feeling mortified and turned on at half-screaming, half-moaning in pure unadulterated pleasure in front of  _the Dark Lord_. He felt his hands claw wildly at his shoulders, trying to contain his convulsing body.

And then it was gone.

Harry felt his body go limp and he almost collapsed on the floor. But he was anything if not stubborn so remained kneeling. He was shivering and there were still slight tremors rippling across his chest and he almost whimpered at how good the subsiding ripples of pain felt on his currently sore and oversensitive body. He was so focused on remaining on his knees and keeping his mind straight that he barely noticed Tom crouching low around a foot away front of him. Tom was grinning darkly, perfect teeth flashed, and one thin eyebrow raised in amusement.

"Who could have thought that the Light's Golden Boy would enjoy pain to that extent?" he asked in a slightly teasing voice followed by an elegant snort, because if anyone could make a snort elegant, it would be Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Harry didn't know if his brain was addled by the  _cruciatus_ because surely the Dark Lord wasn't teasing him and snorting at his expense?

"Who could have thought that the Dark Lord can do something as plebeian as snorting?" he retorted raspily. Just because he was recently under Voldemort's  _crucio_ didn't mean he'd become a sniffling mess.

Nevertheless, he knew he crossed the line with his comment and expected Tom to at least hex him but the older man simply smirked.

"Believe me,  _Stoirm_ , snorting is not the only plebeian thing I do," he drawled, making a point of slowly raking his eyes over Harry's kneeling body from head to toe.

 _'_ I  _am bantering with_ Voldemort  _and getting away with it,'_ he thought, perhaps a bit disbelievingly.

But even the absurdity of the situation wasn't enough to distract him from the man's fervent gaze.

Harry lowered his lashes and innocently asked "What else do you do? Care for a demonstration?"

Voldemort stayed still for a moment before shifting from his crouch. He put both hands down and crawled to close the remaining distance between him and Harry.

It extremely surprised Harry to see the Dark Lord on his knees, even more on his hands  _and_  knees, but with Tom's lithe body gracefully and languidly moving towards him, Harry's mind was more dominated by the fact that the man looked like a cat.

Before he could comment on how amusing it was, Tom put his weight on his arms and sank lowly to be eye-level with Harry. His face was so close Harry could feel their breaths mingling together. Tom's pupils were dilated and Harry was glad to see that he had the same effect on the man as he did on him. The static he always felt at contact with the man was now surrounding him in a mild haze, beckoning him to feel it fully, to touch bare skin.

As he was about to raise his hand to initiate contact, Tom's face crept even closer and Harry could have sworn that his lips were less than a centimetre away. Crimson eyes stared at emerald ones, both pairs unblinking. Harry was getting impatient.

"No," Tom answered in reply to the forgotten question about a demonstration. He shot up and strode across the room towards the desk. His back was to Harry and he saw the man's shoulders rise and fall as he steadied his breaths.

"Let's get down to business, Stoirm. You have a lot of explaining to do."

Harry, irritated at himself for the wasted opportunity and at the Dark Lord for teasing him, turned serious at the mention of explaining.

He closed his eyes and ran his right hand through his hair in an attempt to calm down. "It all began when I was barely two years old."


	5. Chapter 5

On the 31st of July, 1982, the lives of the inhabitants of Number 4 Privet Drive drastically changed.

The "freak" they raised out of the kindness of their hearts finally showed an outward sign of his abnormality.

The boy has always been strange. He never cried and those blasted eyes seemed to follow their every move. Eerie green eyes that looked far too intelligent for a  _baby_.

He also, quite literally,  _never_  made a sound. They assumed that the kid was just mute and hoped that Petunia Dursley's sister hadn't passed down her freakishness to their nephew.

Well, it is safe to say that their hopes were crushed.

It was a lovely summer afternoon and the Dursleys were in the living room, Vernon and Petunia Dursley coaxing words from their son, Dudley Dursley. So far, they were only getting words like "Mine" and "No."

Today was the freak's second birthday - his first in this household - and they decided not to mention anything. He was just around the same age as their little Dudders; he wouldn't even understand what was happening, what with his freakish and probably damaged brain.

They finally managed to get a "Mmmm" sound from the ball-shaped toddler and they had thought it was the start of a "Mama" but it turned out to be "More." Vernon was stupidly repeating the word "Dada" over and over when the quiet boy walked towards them in a steady manner that toddlers simply should not be able to do. He stood a good distance away from the group and waited. It was either they didn't notice him, or they were ignoring him. Minutes passed and the boy still stood noiselessly at the side lines. After what seemed like a quarter of an hour, the kid coughed in his hand.

Both adult Dursleys froze and their smiles dissolved. They turned their heads jerkily in a synchronized fashion and the black-haired toddler smiled in amusement. Now the Dursleys were getting even more creeped out. Goosebumps littered their skin and Petunia even whimpered. Nothing could be scarier than this.

"Dear Aunt and Uncle, I have a favour to ask of you both," he said in a young, high-pitched voice that was normal for a child but sounded weird on him after talking like an adult.

 _That_  proved them wrong. Petunia Dursley fainted while Vernon Dursley was too shocked to catch his wife so Petunia fell on Dudley. The blonde-haired tyke started wailing and the ear-splitting sound spurred Vernon Dursley to come to his son's rescue.

Harry Potter rolled his eyes and walked away. Now he'd have to wait until they had pulled themselves together.

' _And they call themselves mature adults? What a joke_ ,' he thought as he sighed in exasperation and headed for his secret corner to resume his lessons.

* * *

For the whole remainder of the afternoon, Harry tried to talk to his Aunt and Uncle. But both of them were larger and had longer legs so Harry couldn't exactly chase them. Finally, dinner came and his patience was wearing thin. The Dursleys ate without including him as usual. Tonight was different, though. Tonight Harry wasn't obediently staying put in his crib.

Tonight he joined the table.

His Aunt screamed in a strangled voice, obviously still scared of him, but his Uncle's shock seemed to be wearing off. He was glaring at the boy and he balled his beefy hands tightly.

"What are you doing,  _boy,_ " he questioned in a tone that suggested that it was not a question.

Nevertheless, Harry answered. "As I said before, I have a favour to ask of you both."

Vernon narrowed his eyes at him. Petunia's pitiful mewling, Dudley's incessant thumping of his plastic tumbler and his throwing of big lumps of thick, gooey baby cereal were all grating on Harry's nerves. He wanted to be in the silent confines of his corner as soon as was possible so he started talking.

"I need a whole room to myself."

His Uncle went from red to purple. He stood abruptly and leaned on his thick arms on the edge of the dining table. It quite amused Harry. The man looked like a purple potato about to explode. And explode he did.

"You have your cupboard,  _boy._  That's more than enough for you! After giving you a place to live, clothes to wear and food to eat, you dare ask for more! How dare you, how dare you abuse our kindness after providing for you when your stupid, irresponsible, worthless parents can't because they got themselves blown up in a fit of alcohol-induced adrenaline!" Vernon was now panting in anger.

Harry's face was blank. After a few seconds, he asked, "Are you finished now, Uncle?"

Vernon eyes widened but he didn't say anything.

"I am asking nicely and I-" he was cut off in mid-sentence when a ball of sticky cereal hit him full in the face.

It was a dramatic moment, thick substance slowly dripping down Harry's face and his eyes opening in an equally slow pace, with Dudley's uncontrollable laughter in the background. Vernon stepped back and stumbled back to his chair. Both he and Petunia sat back as far as they can in their seats in fear and Petunia even considered cupping her Dudders' mouth to muffle his laughs. Their nephew's intense green eyes seemed to be glowing. The temperature suddenly dropped and they can almost feel a burning cold in the air, slowly suffocating them. For a moment, each of the Dursleys, even Dudley, saw themselves reflected in the boy's eyes with blood pouring off every hole in their head; their eyes, nose, ears. But before they could blink, it was gone and the temperature was back to normal and they tried to think if it was just their imagination, except boring people like the Dursleys didn't have random visions as interesting as that.

Harry wiped his face with the palm of his right hand and flicked his wrist to throw the goo at Dudley's direction.

"You savage blonde piglet," Harry hissed with vehemence, his words dripping with poison.

Petunia gasped and even Dudley seemed to sense that he was insulted because he started shrieking at small Harry. Vernon reached his limit and stood up to hit the disrespectful little shit that seemed to think he could insult his family just because he can talk when said shit produced a knife from his back.

Harry tsked. "Now, now, Uncle Vernon. You wouldn't hurt p-poor lit-t-little Harry, would you?"

He lightly trailed the knife's pointed edge in a circle around his target. Harry could reach neither his Uncle's chest nor his stomach due to Harry's exceptionally small two-year-old body, so he pointed the knife at the only "vital" part his limited reach could stab.

He grinned from ear to ear when his Uncle paled as Harry poked his crotch with the sharp knife.

"Do I have your full attention now?" He asked the room at large. Petunia was looking faint and was covering Dudley's mouth. Strangely enough, the toddler wasn't struggling. It seemed like he finally followed his instincts and smelled danger in the air.

His Uncle didn't move. He was barely even breathing, maybe fearing that he'd be pressing against the knife if he so much as inhaled. Harry interpreted the silence as a yes.

"Good Dursleys," he purred. "Now, all I really wanted was a room. The Master bedroom, if my Dear Aunt and Uncle would be so kind. I'd be very much obliged," he paused to see if there were any objections. He chuckled when nobody made a sound of disagreement.

"Very  _good,_ " the two-year-old said in a pleased voice and he didn't seem to notice the strong, invisible waves of glee coming from him and soaking his relatives. Their eyes seemed to glaze a bit before clearing and, almost instantly, they felt happy that they were able to please the little boy. The Dursleys felt empty, like they had lost something irreplaceable when the feeling retreated. The burning need to feel that comforting aura again and to recover what was lost was so strong they were convinced that they had to please Harry from now on.

"As a reward for your good behaviour, I promise to stay hidden in the house and pretend I don't exist. As long as you don't give me a reason to get out, anyway," he tilted his head in a silent question.

"Of course, Harry," they chorused.

"That won't be necessary, though, Harry. You could do whatever you want," Petunia said in one breath, words tumbling out of her mouth like she was afraid someone would say it first. Harry dropped his knife-wielding hand and tucked the weapon away behind him as he smiled at Petunia.

"Thank you, dear aunt."

Vernon seemed to panic and blabbered "I can drive you wherever you want to!"

Harry laughed merrily. ' _Ah, so this is power. How intoxicating_.'

Dudley looked like he wouldn't allow himself to lose either. He strung a couple of words that surprisingly made sense, considering that it was Dudley who constructed it. "Game, Shocklet, guuuuh," he gurgled, pointing at the black-haired child that was smaller and younger than him.

Harry's eyes twinkled as he thought of all the possibilities. He laughed again and the Dursleys felt the wave return and they enthusiastically jumped from the ship and drowned in Harry's aura.

Harry dismissed them and headed for the stairs.

' _Happy birthday to me_ ,' Harry thought as he opened the door to his new room. He explored every nook and cranny and studied various objects he wasn't allowed to touch before. He was so engrossed he lost track of time and was startled when the clock struck twelve.

As twelve chimes echoed across the room and ended his birthday, Harry realized that this was the first time he had some toys to play with. He smiled. He had his puppets and he would surely enjoy the show.


	6. Chapter 6

"You're saying that a two-year-old was smart enough to speak in straight sentences and threaten adults."

The Dark Lord was leaning on the edge of a large mahogany table, arms and legs crossed. He looked disbelievingly at the boy sitting comfortably - too comfortably in his opinion - in front of him; Harry started talking in a sitting position but gradually moved to lay his head on his crossed arms over the arm of his chair and then throwing his feet over the other arm.

"Do I need to repeat myself?" he asked impertinently, lifting his head a bit to stare at Tom.

Voldemort was too focused on the subject at hand to even get angry at Harry's tone

"Even if the said kid is a wizard and the threatened party is muggle, it is still absurd," he continued in a dubious tone.

Harry wriggled in his seat and shifted his position so he can lean on his elbows while holding his upper body aloft to see Tom clearly.

"It might be absurd but that doesn't make it any less possible. It happened, after all.  _I_  was the said two-year-old. But then again, it  _is_ me and I have this tendency to make 'impossible' things possible," Harry said airily, making air quotes at 'impossible.'

Tom scoffed. "As much as I would like to insult you on your over-inflated ego, I find that I'd rather hear explanations."

"Yet you had time to comment on my over-inflated ego," Harry pointed out.

"Explain, Potter," Tom growled dangerously.

"Alright, alright," Harry said seriously while smiling, hands raised in surrender. He stood up from his seat and stretched his arms above his head. His gray sweater rode up and a bit of skin showed. Tom's eyes flashed and narrowed.

"Don't think that I'm not aware of what you're doing," Tom warned.

"What are you talking about?" Harry's eyes widened in feigned innocence. He put his hands down at his sides and faced Tom fully.

"You have been constantly testing my limits since that night in the graveyard. What game are you playing at, Stoirm?"

Harry perked up. It was the first time Tom said his moniker without making it sound like an insult. There's no doubt that the Dark Lord had figured the meaning behind his alias, so why wasn't he saying it with distaste?

'Unbelievable. _Could I actually be starting to gain the trust of the Dark Lord this early on?'_

His work was finally bearing fruit and it would be terribly inconvenient to go back to square one so Harry hardened his resolve and decided to continue with caution.

"What makes you think I'm playing a game, my Lord? You already know about my masochism, so why can't I just be provoking you for the pleasure of enjoying the danger that comes with it?"

Well, with as much caution as he can. But apparently, it's not much.

Tom didn't expect a serious answer to begin with so he wasn't disappointed. It annoyed him, though, that Potter always knew how to avoid his questions and sidetrack him with other matters.

"Back to business! Are you not curious about the woes and worries of young Harry Potter?"

Like now.

Tom just jerked his head in permission for Harry to continue his tale. It would be better to remain quiet for the time being. He had too many questions and they wouldn't get anywhere if he voiced them and pestered the boy. He stood up from his perch on the desk to sit on the grand chair behind the large, mahogany table. He motioned for Harry to sit closer before interlocking his hands on top of the empty desk. Harry waved his hand and the chair he was previously sitting on glided directly in front of the large table and settled with a dull thump. Tom pointedly looked at Harry at the effortless use of  _wandless_ , not to mention  _nonverbal_ , magic. Harry simply smiled and shrugged. He sat smoothly down his chair, crossed his legs and continued telling his story.

"I was far, far,  _faaar_ too advanced for a kid my age and I was curious to know as to why. I pored over all the psychology books I could get my hands on and found cases similar to mine. But there was still something off. I was able to do hypnotism, telepathy, accidental telekinesis and even teleportion twice, all before I was four. At least that was how I called them before I knew about magic. Anyway, as my fourth birthday drew nearer, I was coming to a dead end. I've read hundreds of books and I was still clueless about my condition. That was when I voiced a silly little anecdote in front of the Dursleys. I muttered, verbatim, 'The only explanations left I could think of would be fairies sprinkling magic dust or aliens abducting and experimenting on a human specimen.' Can you guess what happened next?"

Harry's eyes seemed to glow and Tom could easily imagine those large green eyes shooting off the killing curse in a pair of light beams.

"My aunt, upon hearing the word 'magic,' fucking leapt like a dog at the opportunity to tell me something I seemed very interested in. She told me  _everything_ she knew. About my mother, her sister, being a muggleborn; about Hogwarts; how a certain Dark Lord killed my parents but failed to kill me; and how Albus Dumbledore left me in their care. Believe it or not, my first reaction wasn't grief or confusion. No, I was  _angry_. Not at the 'bad wizard' who killed my biological parents, but at my Aunt and Uncle for forgetting telling me about something so important. But  _nothing_  I felt at that time could rival my anger at Albus fucking Dumbledore."

Not being able to control his anger anymore, Harry stood up and paced back and forth in front of the table.

"The old coot left a wizard on the doorstep of a muggle family. A family that abhorred magic so bad the mere mention of it would probably send them in a rage. A family that would consider killing the baby of a hated sister but too weak to have the guts to do so. I get so fucking furious every time I remember how they treated me during the first year of my stay. They abused the fact that I didn't cry or make any noise. They neglected me to the point of starvation! I was given water while I watched their bloody pig of a son consume  _gallons_ of milk. I was kept in the cupboard and when my cousin and I were old enough to chew solid food, I would be given a single slice of bread soaked in water daily while their boy gobbled down more food at two years old than I probably have ever eaten in my  _entire life_.

"They hit me at times when they noticed me acting weird, which was almost all the time, and tested if I would finally make a sound. My uncle went as far as drowning me. But he backed out when he didn't even get the satisfaction of seeing me thrashing in the tub or attempting to loosen his hands around my neck. So he settled for beating me up. I never fought back because I knew for a fact that my uncle was stronger. Who would want to look like a pitiful idiot? If I were to die, I would do so with as much dignity as I could manage.

"Besides, I was positive death would be better compared to the monotonous life I was leading in the hands of my relatives. One night, when I was terribly hungrier than usual, I tried to nick food from the pantry. And surprise, surprise, I got caught," Harry rolled his eyes. "I received a specially bad beating and was literally thrown back in my cupboard. I curled up in my corner, basking in the by then familiar pain. It was much later when some of it subsided that I noticed a particularly painful spot on my right arm. Turned out a broken bone punctured my skin," Harry stopped pacing and stared directly at Tom.

He walked towards the table and bent forward to lean on his elbows. The desk was separating them so they weren't  _that_ close, but it was still close enough for Tom to notice the flecks of silver decorating Harry's bright emerald green eyes and the thin, black outline enclosing the colors in a circle. Slytherin colors.

Harry blinked and the short disappearance of those eyes pulled Tom back to the present. When Harry didn't receive any sign of disapproval from the Dark Lord at the close proximity, his smile widened further. He continued his narrative in a hushed tone.

"I was never really afraid of death. In fact, I thought of it as a gift to those who carried the burden of living. But that injury... The idea that something as _tiny_  as that wound was enough to drain my small, frail body of my blood and leave me an empty husk devoid of life... _That_  was the wake-up call I so desperately needed. With the hallway light streaming through the slits in my door, the rich redness of my dripping blood looked beautiful. My sudden animalistic desire to live, the pounding of my heart, the rush of power in my veins; I have etched every single detail of that night in my mind," he gushed passionately, his eyes having that far-away quality you get when reminiscing. He returned to reality quickly enough and composed himself.

"The next thing I know, though, it was morning and my wound was completely healed. I would have thought that everything was just a dream if it wasn't for the barely visible crescent-shaped scar on my right inner arm that I was perfectly sure wasn't there before that morning. That was the first act of magic I remember performing but I wasn't aware of it at the time. I was determined to know what was happening so I made a plan. I learned the art of subtlety and avoided the Dursleys during the day and blended among the shadows as I crept around the house at night and practically inhaled every source of knowledge I could in the house and the internet. On my birthday, after almost three months of self-education, I decided to use my still unidentified powers on the Dursleys," Harry tilted his head to the side, his smile still in place and never fully leaving during his speech.

"And it worked," Tom stated.

"Yes, it did," Harry confirmed. "Thank goodness for that. I sometimes imagine what my situation would be like right now if I didn't take charge at an early age."

Both of them looked at each other and they seemed to be wondering about the same thing. Would Harry still be interested in joining the Dark Side then? Would Lord Voldemort still be hunting Harry Potter? Pointless what-ifs.

Dwelling on what could have been instead of what  _is_ was just a waste of time.

"So what did you do when you learned the truth about your wizarding ties and Dumbledore's actions?" Tom asked, eager to know more.

Harry shifted in a more comfortable position by turning around and pulling himself up near the corner of table and then leaning on his hands behind him.

"I asked my aunt to accompany me on a tour of London," Harry answered.

Tom raised his eyebrow. "What, did you decide to vent your anger by  _shopping_?"

Harry chuckled and turned his head to stare at the elder man. "What have you got against shopping?"

Tom merely rolled his eyes and Harry's grin widened.

"For your information, I went there to spy. I was told that witches and wizards were just lurking among the crowd of muggles and that they were easy enough to spot. Why, I didn't even have to spot one! I just styled my hair in a fashion that would show my scar and they aprroached me like moths to a flame. They shook my hand and thanked me for something I wasn't even aware I did. I was the savior of the Wizarding World, evidently! A beacon of Light! Hah! How naive of them," Harry shook his head in exasperation.

"From there on out, it was an easy journey. I just followed every wizard or witch I can until one of them led me to Diagon Alley. I returned there everyday with my aunt, just walking around and absorbing information. After a week, I knew enough about the wizarding world to sound like a normal wizarding child if not pressed with too many questions. We went to Gringotts to check my account and was told that a key wasn't required if we can provide a drop of blood from the current owner. The goblins actually impressed me. They hid their surprise at seeing the name forming below the drop of my blood on the parchment well. They were very professional and informative and they answered my aunt's rehearsed questions in a straightforward manner. I discovered that  _Dumbledore_ was my magical guardian so every activity in my account would be reported back to him. It was too early for Dumbledore to realize that I was up and about so I willed my aunt to ask the goblins to keep our visit secret. They easily agreed but something in their look told me that they were wary of me. We went home and returned to Gringotts the next day with a sack full of Muggle currency. We had them converted and, as you have correctly guessed, went  _shopping_ ," Harry smirked at this point.

"I bought, maybe quite literally, tons of books. I went home with a magical trunk with a perfect lightening charm and a huge walk-in library already filled to the brim and with only a few galleons left to spare in my pocket. After that trip, I didn't go out of the house for a  _whole year._  My schedule mainly consisted of sleeping, eating, reading, practicing, and, since many of the things I learned required exceptional stamina, exercising. At five, I was old enough to safely try little glamours and I assumed the persona of a dwarf nomad called Grumpy-"

Tom laughed and Harry couldn't believe his ears. The Dark Lord was laughing! Real, human laugh, not the cold bark he would have expected from the man. Tom's laugh was light and pleasant, the kind that made you want to join laughing. He quickly sobered up but the corners of his mouth remained slightly upturned.

"In reference to the muggle fairy tale, Snow White?" he asked, eyes sparkling in mirth.

Harry can't help but smile, too. "Yes. I thought it was amusing."

Tom chuckled again and motioned for Harry to continue.

"Anyway. I used that form to explore wizarding London and acquire various objects; potion ingredients, books on the Dark Arts, questionable artifacts and the like. I've been using Grumpy for almost two years, which made me seven at the time, when I obtained a fairly expensive book on dark rituals during one of my trips in the murkier part of the market."

The light atmosphere suddenly cooled at the implication of what Harry said.

"Finally, after  _five_  years," Harry paused for effect. "I finally had a clue."

"Dumbledore?" Tom asked, genuinely astonished.

"Yes," Harry hissed. "Albus Dumbledore defiled a one-year-old baby and performed a blood ritual on my body without my parents' consent. Perhaps he wanted to make a human soldier, perhaps he had an acceptable reason, but it doesn't change the fact that Albus Dumbledore is a manipulative, narrow-minded hypocrite. I allowed my good sense to prevail and decided to reserve judgement until I met him at Hogwarts but it was all for naught. I found out, on my  _very first day_ , that I didn't like him  _at all._  Not very long had passed before I loathed him completely," he ranted heatedly.

"How do you know all this?"

"As you already probably know, I'm a Legilimens. I also broke in the Headmaster's office to view his pensieve once."

"And have you discovered what ritual he performed on you?"

Harry snorted.

"The fool doesn't even know what he did! He thought one of the ingredients he used was quicksilver. What he didn't and still doesn't know is that he used the wrong item. Quicksilver and unicorn blood look virtually the same; idiots who can't differentiate will have a bad time. So instead of his intended outcome - where he and I would supposedly become mentor and student, bonded in a way that we'd start thinking alike as the mentor transfers teachings to the student - I actually underwent a ritual that halved the performer's remaining lifespan and wherein the life energy gets transformed into pure power, then transferred to the one under the ritual. The performed-on would be force-fed with the performer's basic knowledge and fundamentals."

"The 'Virtutem Vitae' found on page 758 of Valde Obscura Ritualibus," Tom cited in disbelief.

Harry raised his eyebrows for a moment before he laughed. "Oh, of course. You're the Dark Lord, I shouldn't be surprised that you know your obscure arts," he said, amused.

"You are proficient in Latin?"

"Yes. I studied it since many interesting books are written in Latin. Plus it helps in spell creation."

"I should have known," Tom sighed.

Harry caught himself in mid-chuckle and was honestly surprised at how fast he was feeling at ease in the Dark Lord's company.

"But it is surprising that you turned out Darkly-aligned when you received  _Dumbledore's_ fundamentals," Tom commented.

"Fundamentals are just fundamentals. I had a developed mind of my own and I had the capacity to choose sides. But I get your point. A child is easily influenced," he paused, then haughtily added "I guess I'm really special, then."

Tom didn't snort, scoff or roll his eyes as expected. "Yes, quite," he murmured instead, crimson eyes boring into Harry's.

Harry was half stunned, half amused at Tom's agreement. After a few seconds, Tom stood up and conjured a package wrapped in black silk and tied with a silver bow. The package landed on the table, near Harry's hand.

"Open it."

Harry tugged at the ribbon and a black cloak with a pointed hood greeted his sight. Hidden in the folds is a plain silver mask with two slits for the eyes. He caressed the fine material and looked at the Dark Lord, now in front of him, with a spirited expression.

"Aren't you going to search my mind, my Lord?" he asked.

"No," Tom simply replied. "You forget that I'm a talented legilimens," he pushed his point by attacking Harry's occlumency shields and retreating before a second could pass. "I can sense lies. Also, I won't be marking you yet. It would be like asking for trouble, branding a Hogwarts student. More so in your case, Golden Boy."

Harry stood up. He was about to kneel down in a show of respect to his Lord when Tom extended his right hand. Harry eyed it skeptically. He took a huge breath before reaching out. Shivers immediately traveled down his spine at the abrupt touch.

Neither one made a move to shake the other's hand. Harry's index finger started tracing circles on Tom's palm and Tom instinctively and painfully tightened his hand around the smaller hand. Harry gave a sharp intake of breath and visibly shuddered. Tom doubted he would be able to control himself if he let this go further, so he unwillingly but resolutely shook the boy's hand twice before letting go.

"Welcome to the ranks, Stoirm," Tom breathed out as he willed himself to appear cool and collected like the Dark Lord he was, not the barely in control man he was slowly becoming when the Potter brat was around.


	7. Chapter 7

_12 July, 1995_

The Death Eaters easily noticed the complete 180 of Lord Voldemort's mood. One day he was acting like his usual irritable self - getting angry at the littlest things and cursing left and right like there was no tomorrow - then next he suddenly became as nice as Dark Lords can get. Not exactly nice  _nice_ , but calm, collected and less insane. Some of the older members thought that Lord Voldermort was acting like his past self, when his body and mind weren't affected by the numerous rituals he performed on himself yet. In fact, they haven't seen him  _cruciate_  anyone for  _a whole week_  now. The change was too sudden and caught the Death Eaters off-guard. They weren't familiar with this "nice" side of the Dark Lord; they didn't know his temper and where the landmines were. Everyone was acting a lot more cautious and terrified than normal.

Except one.

The mysterious new addition to their cause. Of average height and petite frame, this silent, hooded figure introduced as Stoirm attended every meeting they had since the Dark Lord's "mood swing." Having a new member at this point in time is very unusual since the Dark Lord just recently came back. Nobody knew that he really  _was_  back besides the Death Eaters. There was Harry Potter, of course, but the Ministry didn't reallybelieve him, did they? No, the boy was currently a joke in the Wizarding world, labeled as a troubled kid craving for attention. The-Boy-Who-Lied, they were calling him these days.

But still, the public was on edge. A Hogwarts student died under the protective gaze of Albus Dumbledore, the only wizard said to be  _feared_ by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (Hah! What a joke. Their Lord is not afraid of that barmy old coot!). Joined by the circulating rumor of Dementors on the loose and Potter's insistent cries of Lord Voldemort's return, the Death Eaters just couldn't reveal themselves and do some proper recruiting in the current paranoid state of Wizarding Britain.

That's why seeing a new member was  _really_  strange. Who could have brought him here? And if nobody did, how could he have known where to find them? It was all very suspicious. Nobody seemed to be able to identify this person. He never drew his hood back, his cloak was too big for anyone to make sure if he was male or female, and he never made a single sound during the meetings. The Death Eaters were clueless.

Well... not  _all_ of them.

Bartemius "Barty" Crouch Jr. had his suspicions. He couldn't help but be inclined to think that Stoirm was  _that boy._ Barty had specially observed him for almost a year during his stay at Hogwarts as a disguised professor and he could see the similarities. The build, the height, the demeanor - if his theory was true and Stoirm was the boy, then it would seem that the boy was purposely not acting differently to test Barty.

That maddened him.

Shamefully enough, though, he wouldn't even suspect that anything was off if the boy hadn't been so out of character the last time they met. Sure, the boy acted a bit fishy during their interactions at Hogwarts; he acted like he knew something, maybe about Barty using Polyjuice, or maybe about his real identity and the fact that he was a Death Eater. But Barty dismissed it all as paranoia since... how could anyone guess the far-fetched truth?

However, their last meeting had stayed with Barty. When he had locked them in a room after the Third Task, the boy told him, "Go back to your master, little doggy." That was his last clear memory before things got hazy. Barty faintly remembered running and apparating, and the next thing he knew, he was in a muggle hotel room, bathed and rested. He couldn't believe he actually  _ran away_ but the only other answer he could think of was that  _a little kid_  put him under the  _Imperius,_  and  _that_  was even harder to believe.

Barty opened the doors to the dark dining room where the Death Eaters were supposed to meet for their biweekly meetings and his musings stopped to a halt. It was still a little early and most Death Eaters had a love for dramatic entrances so he didn't expect anyone to already be there. A stupid thought, because not-so-surprisingly enough, the hooded figure was already there. Along with the Dark Lord.

Barty looked confused and hurried towards Lord Voldemort. He stopped a good distance away and knelt down on one knee in greeting.

"My Lord, I was quite positive that the meeting would commence at nine?" he hesitantly said, sentence ending in a questioning tone.

"Do not fret, Bartemius. I have merely decided to come early to start the meeting right away," Lord Voldemort said, waving a thin, pale hand at Barty's chair as a signal that Barty can rise and take his seat.

Barty stood up and sat down his chair. He had his head bowed down and mouth shut, not having anything important to say. He felt like he disturbed something by coming in. The silence was stifling and he wanted to get up and make an excuse about forgetting something and just come back at the exact meeting time. To his great relief, he only had to endure a few minutes of the tension in the room. Death Eaters trickled in and by the time the clock struck nine, all the expected attendees were there. As Barty finally raised his head, he had himself staring at a pair of large, glowing, green eyes. It was just a flash, a calculated movement that only he was able to see because of the angle. Barty was so startled he gave a small gasp and Stoirm finally showed some emotion. His face remained shadowed but the only visible part of his face, his mouth, stretched into a small smile. Barty felt the blood leaving his face as he paled and he licked his dry lips.

If Stoirm really was who he thought he was...

No. He was now perfectly sure. His hunch was confirmed. The mysterious stranger wasn't a stranger - it was Harry Potter.

* * *

"Why are you here, Stoirm?"

"I'm bored," Harry drawled in answer to the question that the Dark Lord had been asking him every time he followed the man to his supposedly private study. At this point, the dialogue seemed more like a greeting than an actual question.

He had been coming here everyday since he was initiated. Number 4 Privet Drive wasn't exactly what you'd call "exciting" and he had nothing else to do.

The Dark Lord had reverted back to his more human form once all the Death Eaters (minus Harry) left. He was wearing a black and gray argyle sweater and beige pants. Apparently, that was the Dark Lord's idea of a cozy weekend outfit. Harry, meanwhile, was still wearing his Death Eater robes. He walked towards the large couch in the corner where the man was lounging on, still reading that book Harry can't read. He plopped down at the bit of space near Tom's feet and settled comfortably. When Tom didn't ask him to go sit somewhere else, he brought out his book and started reading.

This was how most of their time together would go, the silence only broken with casual questions that would start innocently enough but sometimes turn out with one of them getting pissed off and ending with a duel.

After what felt like half an hour, Harry conjured muggle canned drinks. He lightly tapped Tom's knee with the cold drink to know if he wanted one. The man just lifted his eyes for a moment, said "No thanks," and returned to his book. Harry shrugged his shoulders, closed his book and put it on his lap. A familiar hissing sound escaped as he opened the can and Harry took a sip. He laid his head on the couch's backrest and looked at the ceiling and saw little cobwebs forming at the corner.

 _'Tom would want that cleaned,'_ he randomly thought as he took another swig.

He saw Tom's book drop an inch lower in his peripheral. He rolled his head a bit to the side and met Tom's observing eyes. Harry teasingly touched the can to his lips and tilted it to swallow a particularly large amount. He watched Tom's gaze travel down to his neck and back up to his mouth when he licked the soda off his lips.

Tom just stared dully at him. Harry's constant presence was helping him get better at  _appearing_  unaffected around the boy. Unfortunately,  _looking_  unaffected doesn't equal to  _being_ unaffected. Tom coughed.

"Aren't you going to finish that drink any time soon? You could make a mess," he said before tugging his knees closer to his chest and supporting the book he was reading there.

Harry, who had drunk the whole content of the can the moment Tom mentioned finishing the drink, caught a glimpse of the man's feet as he shifted. Harry immediately inhaled his drink and sputtered the rest of it in a  _spectacular_  spray. He could feel his lungs burning and his eyes tearing up. He hacked and coughed and laughed uncontrollably. He peeked a glance at the Dark Lord and lost himself upon seeing the man's eyes wide open in surprise. Tom was holding his book as far away from his drenched self as he can in hopes of keeping it dry. He was so still and drops of soda were dropping from his hair. He looked so adorable but Harry put that thought aside and tried  _hard_  to keep his laughter down as he scrambled up the couch and clambered towards the man on all fours.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry, Tom," he was still laughing and the words were getting drowned in his giddiness. He used the sleeves of his robe to dry the man. "It was just, your  _socks_! I didn't see them before since I was practically sitting on your feet and then you pulled them up and I was so surprised because who could have guessed..." he stopped as he realized their position. His left hand was on Tom's right knee and his right wrist was scrubbing his sleeve on Tom's left inner thigh, trying to dry the man's soda-soaked pants.

"...that the Dark Lord wears blue and orange-striped socks," he finished in a low murmur, the smile vanishing off his face.

Neither registered the noise of Tom dropping his book.

Harry noticed a few drops clinging on Tom's lashes and some on the corner of his mouth. His hands traveled to Tom's face and his body hovered over Tom's.

Tom was still in shock at the weird sequence of events and barely processed Harry's advancing face. The boy's lips connected with the corner of his mouth and the feeling of Harry's tongue jerked him back to the present.

He  _oh-so-wanted_  to kiss, to  _ravage,_  this boy's mouth raw until he can't mutter a single word of insolence Tom refused to lose this toxic game of seduction.

He held Harry's wrists in his hands. His crimson eyes stared fiercely at emerald ones and he murmured, "Have you forgotten that you're a wizard? You don't need to do things the muggle way."

Tom roughly let go of Harry's wrist and stood up. He pulled his wand from his sleeve and cast a cleaning charm on himself, all in one swift motion.

"I think it's time for you to go home,  _little boy_."

It had the desired effect and Harry glared at him,eyes dangerously flashing. Tom knew he hated being called a "little boy" and it filled him with twisted glee that he could make Harry this angry this fast.

"Oh? Is the little boy dismissed because he found out that the scary Dark Lord wears cute, striped socks?" Harry mockingly asked in a sweet voice.

Regrettably, the boy also knew which buttons to push.

 _*Go home!*_ Tom hissed in Parseltongue.

He closed his eyes and took steadying breaths in an attempt to calm down. He was in no mood for another duel of reckless wrecking in his study.

Once his heart rate was back to normal, he opened his eyes. The boy was nowhere in sight.

Tom sighed and massaged his temples with his index fingers.

' _There we go again,'_ he thought before transfiguring his socks into a different design.


	8. Chapter 8

Harry was irritated with himself.

He saw an empty can on the sidewalk and once again remembered what happened. He stomped and stomped on the innocent can until it was nothing but a pitiful lump of metal and kicked it as hard as he can. The few people on the street looked at him and hurried away. He was disguised as a hugely-built, unpleasant-looking, middle-aged man and had been wandering aimlessly around muggle London, trying to simmer down for almost an hour now.

He had lost his temper  _again_ with the Dark Lord. With  _his Lord_! Really, why he still hasn't been punished for his antics was a mystery. He always tried to start every visit with him in his best behavior but Tom just really knew how to make him, in a ridiculously short amount of time, want to tear his hair out. It was so fucking frustrating. It was like they're stuck in an endless loop: Have a normal conversation. Say something insignificant that will annoy the hell out of the other. Fight. Cut the visit short. Sleep angry. Be completely refreshed come morning. Avoid talking about the previous night. Repeat.

Maybe that  _was_  the problem. This cycle was bringing him back to square one every day. He needed to be the one to take action because he was pretty sure that Tom wouldn't.

So Harry refused to let this day end like every other did.

Before he could lose his momentum, he apparated back to Riddle Manor.

* * *

Tom poured himself another glass of Firewhiskey and took a mouthful, relishing the smooth, burning sensation descending his throat. The expensive, century-old bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey, which had been a gift from a Death Eater, turned out to be quite enjoyable and good for late-night reads. He was nearly through with the Albanian book that he'd been reading for the past few days. His attention was focused on the book and his free hand brought the glass to his lips. When not a single drop met his mouth, he tore his eyes away from the tome. He reached for the bottle and frowned when he saw that only half was left. He had been too absorbed in what he was doing and had unconsciously consumed a large amount of alcohol. That wasn't like him.

Tom glanced at the grandfather clock. Beside it was the couch where he and...

He needed to sleep. His mind was wandering where it wasn't supposed to.

The clock displayed 11:47. It was still early in his opinion, considering the time he normally slept, but he admitted that his eyelids were feeling a bit heavy. Tom slightly blamed the drink. It was very potent and its warmth made him feel fuzzy and drowsy, but it was the first thing he thought of to help him calm down after...

It really was time to retire for the night.

He had just put down his glass and the leather-bound book on the surface of the desk when he felt the wards around the manor alert him of an intruder.

Tom was instantly awake. He had a guess as to who it could be. Only his Death Eaters knew about this place and only one of them was brave (and/or stupid) enough to disturb him at this hour. He waited patiently in his seat and thought he might as well have another glass of firewhiskey. He might need it.

After a while, he heard footsteps echoing in the corridor outside the study, coming closer and closer and halting to a stop on the other side of the double doors. There was a short silence. Then it was broken by two sharp knocks.

 _'Let's see how persistent you can get,'_ Tom thought, feeling particularly playful. He picked up his glass and sloshed the whiskey around.

Precisely ten seconds later came two knocks again, this time with a long pause in the middle that somehow felt like a warning.

Tom remained seated and sipped his drink.

Finally, a single knock, louder than the others before, resounded throughout the room.

He put his drink down and waited. No further knocks came and a snort escaped him.

Then the doors exploded and Stoirm walked calmly in like he hadn't blasted the wood to smithereens.

"Good evening, Tom," he said with an infuriatingly-bright smile that was obviously fake, as indicated by the faint throbbing of a vein in his temple.

The child really was amusing. Tom hid a smile behind the knuckles of his left hand. His right extracted his wand from his sleeve and casted a quick  _Reparo_ on the destroyed doors before holstering it away again. The debris floated, mending back into place and forming open double doors which shut close once fully repaired. The lock clicked audibly and Tom looked at the boy. The Death Eater robe he had been wearing earlier was replaced by a muggle ensemble; black shirt, comfortable-looking jeans and the black combat boots Tom was now getting accustomed to.

"Why are you here, Stoirm?" he asked as usual. He thought he saw Stoirm's ears redden but it could just be the fire.

"I forgot to tell you about the cobwebs," Stoirm replied confidently, his smile still in place.

Silence.

"What?" Tom had no idea what the boy was talking about.

Was he drunk after all?

"I forgot to tell you about the cobwebs," Stoirm enunciated in a slower voice. His smile was starting to look more like a grimace.

No, he wasn't.

Tom rolled his eyes.

"I heard you the first time, Stoirm. What are you talking about?"

Now there really was faint blushing on the boy's cheeks.

"The cobwebs in the corner. I thought you might want to clean it," he answered stiffly. He raised his left hand and pointed his index finger at the ceiling corner.

Tom looked at where Stoirm was pointing and saw that there was, indeed, a cobweb. The boy was looking at him expectantly so he drew his wand and muttered " _Evanesco."_ The web vanished, along with the spider scuttling around it.

He turned back and faced a no-longer-smiling Stoirm.

"Was that all?"

Stoirm looked at Tom's eyes.

"I-"

Something on the table caught his attention.

"Is that Firewhiskey?" he inquired in an uncharacteristic rush, his words almost stumbling with each other.

"Yes," Tom answered hesitantly.

"Could I have some?" Stoirm asked, eyes burning with determination.

Tom paused for a moment before coming to a decision.

"Go ahead," he acquiesced.

Stoirm walked briskly forward. He grabbed the half-full glass Tom wasn't able to finish. He took a sip and Tom couldn't help but take note of the spot on the glass that Stoirm's lips made contact with and how it was possible that that was where his lips previously were, too.

On the glass. Not on Stoirm's lips.

Before he could chide himself for the direction his thoughts were heading, Stoirm refilled the glass to the brim and downed it all in one go.

Tom could only stare in shock.

"Ahhh, that stings," Stoirm said, clutching at his throat and eyes watering.

" _Foolish boy_. Firewhiskey isn't meant to be taken straight up," Tom hissed.

Harry felt immense heat envelop his entire body. His surroundings spun and he dropped down on the cold floor cross-legged.

"Come on, get up," Tom urged.

"No, the floor feels nice," he said, straightening his legs and lying completely down on the floor.

"Yes, the  _floor_. The majority of the things it's been in contact with is the underside of peoples' shoes. It's not supposed to feel nice. It's supposed to make you wonder what kind of shit people have stepped on and brought with them, intentionally or unintentionally, to your room," Tom said with a grimace.

"Maybe I  _am_ a fool," Stoirm scowled and lifted his head. He sluggishly sat up. He tried to stand but stumbled back down.

"What is  _wrong_  with you? You were acting yourself around an hour ago," Tom seriously wondered. Stoirm's sudden change in attitude was a bit alarming.

' _Is this how my Death Eaters feel?'_ Tom sighed.

He clutched Stoirm's left wrist in his right and tugged the struggling boy up.

The unexpected help and proximity shocked Stoirm into standing straight. His height was relatively above average for his age but he still barely reached the tall Dark Lord's chin. His face was dizzyingly close to Tom's chest and he caught a whiff of the man's scent; books, alcohol, and a unique, spicy musk of some sort. His hand gripped Tom's wrist in the similar manner Tom was holding his. But it appeared that his body can only handle so much alcohol and suffocating tension. His knees wobbled and he swayed precariously. He would've crashed back on the floor if Tom's hands hadn't flown up and steadied him by the shoulders. Delicate, long-fingered hands slid down from his shoulders to his bared arms. His left hand was still on Tom's wrist but his other hand went to the man's chest. He pressed his palm where the heart was supposed to be and chuckled lowly when he felt it beating fast. The "heartless" Dark Lord's heart was just under his hand.

"How easy it would be to transfigure my nails into sharp blades and rip your heart out," Stoirm whispered hysterically, his green eyes crazed.

* _And how easssy would it be to ssssnap your neck?*_

Stoirm was splayed on the nearby desk at an inhuman speed. Before he knew it, his arms were stretched on top of his head on the table, held immobile at the wrists by Tom's left hand. His other hand encircled Stoirm's neck and a finger stroked a carotid. His body hovered over Stoirm, his right knee on the desk holding him aloft. Locks of his slicked-back hair fluttered down and framed his grimly smiling face.

Stoirm's eyes lost a bit of its insane light when he saw Tom's pupils turn slitted like a snake's.

Then the clock struck 12 and broke the spell.

Tom's eyes returned to a slightly muted crimson as realization sunk in. He stood up without warning and left Stoirm lying on the desk.

Stoirm, slightly disappointed and  _angry_  at himself for  _being_  disappointed, sat up unsteadily and leaned on his hands on top of his knees. He saw Tom in his peripheral sit on the couch and run a hand through his hair to arrange it back to its normal style. His vision swam and he didn't know if he was feeling dizzy because of the alcohol or because of... recent events. He closed his eyes and counted from one to ten to focus. On ten, he opened his eyes and took a large, calming breath.

"I'm sorry, I got... carried away," Stoirm apologized, managing to sound sincere and unwilling at the same time.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Carried away? You threatened to rip my heart out,  _boy_."

Stoirm visibly flinched at being called by that irritating  _pet name._ He reined his temper in, nonetheless.

"It was more of a general wonderment than an actual thought, really," Stoirm tried to explain.

" _Wonderment! Hah!"_ Tom scoffed and cruelly laughed.

"Hey! You threatened me back!"

"In  _defense! You_  started it!"

Harry unintentionally let out a giggle.

"For someone who calls  _me_  a 'little boy,' you don't seem so far from one yourself, don't you,  _itty bitty Tommykins_?"

Tom growled and threw an unfamiliar, sickly-yellow hex at him.

Stoirm wasn't going to stay still and see what it did. He vaulted off the table and narrowly missed the beam of light. It hit the plush chair behind the desk and sliced it cleanly in half.

" _Protego,"_ he incanted and a shield was erected in front of him.

The sudden movement made him woozy and he knew duelling in this condition would get him, if not instantly killed, injured violently. So he raised his hands in the air.

"Okay, okay. I apologize,  _again_. Let's take a minute to calm down," he said diplomatically, knees bent in a defensive stance and hands palm-up in an offer of peace.

"Don't act like a bloody circus trainer taming a wild animal!" Tom threw another spell and Stoirm's shield dissolved. He breathed heavily. His temper was teetering on edge.

"Then don't act like one! Man is a rational animal indeed! So much for rationality! I'm trying to say sorry and you-" his heated diatribe was cut off by a cutting hex flying towards him. He twisted in place but his reflexes weren't as sharp as usual. The spell grazed his right upper arm and blood flowed down on the stone floor.

Stoirm lowered his head as he watched his blood pool at his feet. He was stone still and Tom stopped casting curses. Even though they have duelled before, none of their spells really hit the each other. They were both capable of defending themselves. This was a first time.

Stoirm heard a high, ringing noise in his ears and his vision was still red even though he already looked away from the blood and directed his glare at Tom. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, his body shook and his face paled. Then, he exploded.

" _Dammit, Tom_! Do you have  _any_  idea how fucking hard it is for me to fucking  _apologize_? Take it or leave it!" he roared at the top of his lungs.

He panted heavily and paled even further when he realized what he had done. "My Lord," he added meekly and looked down in an attempt to salvage the situation.

Only a few seconds had passed when Stoirm heard a strange noise and he looked back up to see Tom facing the wall and away from him. The man's back was hunched in on himself and his shoulders were shaking violently.

' _Oh, this is it. I've crossed the line before but now I've infiltrated it so hard the imaginary line would probably look like the fucking horizon,'_ Stoirm thought grimly. All of his hard work, ruined by his temper and pride. He  _really_  was a fool.

The noise increased in volume and Stoirm knew it would be best to leave now. But with the sound getting louder, it became identifiable. He closed the distance between him and the Dark Lord to confirm his suspicions. As he neared, though, Tom turned to the other side.

' _Fucking hell.'_

He faked a step on the other side and watched Tom turn back to where he still was. His left arm was pressed against his stomach and while his right hand was covering the lower part of his face, his eyes gave him away.

" _You bipolar bastard!"_ Stoirm growled.

Tom couldn't help it. His stifled laughter bubbled up and his eyes crinkled in merriment.

Stoirm colored up.

"What's so funny?!" he asked in high-pitched voice.

Tom breathed in and out and managed to push down his laughter.

"The fucking horizon," Tom answered with a straight face. But if the twitching of his mouth was any indication, he wasn't done laughing just yet.

Stoirm's eyes widened.

"My occlumency shields were firmly in place."

"Oh, yes. I didn't need to enter your mind. You said it  _aloud_. Didn't you know you have this tendency to voice your thoughts?" Tom peered at him curiously.

"If I did, I would have stopped doing it as soon as I knew," he snarled. Stoirm sat down on the couch and reflected back on all of their meetings.

"Oh, relax," Tom waved his hand. "It just happens when you're really annoyed. And they're mostly profanities."

Stoirm didn't reply and reviewed his memories. A chuckle distracted him and he locked eyes with Tom.

"I can't believe you called me 'My Lord' a moment ago," he said with one brow raised.

Stoirm forced a fake smile. "I have called you 'My Lord' plenty of times before,  _My Lord._ "

Tom laughed again. "See? You always do it with  _sass._ There  _may_  have been a  _few,_ I repeat,  _a few,_  times you did alright but this was the first time you sounded the way the others do."

"Oh? And that sound would be?"

"They deferred to me properly, like worms beneath my feet," Tom looked down from his stand at Stoirm's sitting form.

Stoirm rolled his eyes in annoyance. He stood on the couch and finally had the pleasure of looking down his nose at Tom.

"We need a safeword."

Tom arched a brow.

"For situations like this. When one seriously needs the other one to stop or... whatever," Stoirm explained, a hand waving in the air.

"Like the muggle sex thing."

Stoirm dropped his hand.

"Tom. How could you possibly know about that?" he asked in pure curiosity.

Tom shrugged and smirked. "I know many things," he replied breezily.

Stoirm narrowed his eyes. "So you know how it works?"

"Yes, and I think it could be a good idea."

"Alright," he drawled suspiciously. "Ideas?"

"Safeword," Tom said.

"Yes, I think we've moved past that. We need a safeword."

Tom rolled his eyes. "I meant let's use that exact word:  _Safeword_."

Stoirm was silent for a while.

"I can't decide whether that's clever or disappointingly unimaginative."

"Let's stick with clever."

Stoirm smiled. "As you please, My Lord."

"Safeword."

"What! I haven't done anything yet!"

"I was just checking if it would work. You obviously need some practice."

"Safeword."

Silence.

"Your talent to irritate me even when you're silent amazes me."

"I have no such talent. That's just your anger management issues talking."

"Safeword."

Tom rolled his eyes. "We'll need to discuss its limitations. We wouldn't be able to communicate this way."

Stoirm's head bobbed in what Tom thought was a nod. Then he collapsed and brought Tom down the floor with him.

"What now..." he groaned and stopped short at the sight of the boy's arm.

"You bloody idiot," he hissed as he quickly lifted Stoirm and placed him on the couch.

"Yes, quite bloody," the boy drew his wand.

Tom pushed Stoirm's wand back. He held his own wand and started healing the gash.

"I can heal myself," Stoirm muttered drowsily.

"You should have done that moments ago," Tom retorted. "Besides, I'm nearly finished."

"I honestly forgot about it."

"Your pain tolerance is questionable," Tom said.

Stoirm moaned and closed his eyes.

"Thanks."

The spell finished and a " _Tergeo"_ cleansed Stoirm's body of the dried blood.

The boy hummed in contentment. "I really like you when you're not being a pompous ass, Tom. I wish we could actually be friends."

"Well, you really get on my nerves but your presence is more tolerable than most people I know, so I guess we're getting there."

Stoirm chuckled. "That's not really a compliment since most people you know are sniveling Death Eaters," he mumbled before sleep claimed him.

"You're a Death Eater, too, you know," Tom said in the silence.

He debated whether he should move the boy to a bed or leave him here. Deciding on the former, he crouched on the ground and pulled Stoirm in his arms. The static was still there even when the boy was asleep. Not for the first time, he wondered what it mouth opened in a yawn and his eyes grew bleary. He could think of the answer some other time. He stood up and carried Stoirm himself even though he could have used the levitation charm. As he walked towards the only inhabitable room in the manor, his expression became grimmer.

_'Oh, Merlin. What have I gotten myself into?'_


	9. Chapter 9

"Tom?"

Stoirm poked his head in the study but nobody was there. Although, judging by the familiar magical residue in the room, its occupant just recently left.

' _Strange,'_ he thought, frowning.  _'He knew I was coming.'_

He had passed the parlour and it was also empty. There weren't many rooms that Tom would go into. He went for the library.

It was completely silent and he felt no living presence inside, but he decided to make sure anyway. He looked in between bookshelves, near the tables,  _under_  the tables,  _in the bookshelves_.

Nothing.

That only left his private quarters.

Stoirm climbed up the lavish staircase, the sound of creaking wood beneath his feet filling the eerie silence. All the curtains were shut and even though it's morning, it didn't look like it. He slid two of his fingers on the handrail and held them to his face - no dust.

 _'I never saw a house-elf in this house,'_ he thought idly, wondering how the Dark Lord manages without one.

He reached the top and turned left, heading for the single unbarred room on the second floor. It wasn't a long trip. In less than a minute, he was facing a discreet brown door that he wouldn't have given a second glance if he hadn't known it was the right room.

Stoirm opened the door without knocking. After all, he wasn't one to let an opportunity to catch Tom off-guard pass by.

Unfortunately, he was the one caught off-guard.

Tom's hair, his fucking impeccable hair, was in disarray for once. It was dripping wet and large hands clutched a small towel to his head. Stoirm's gaze followed the numerous water droplets glistening on pale skin; from slender neck, to broad shoulders, to bare chest, the light trail of hair on his taut stomach, on his abdomen, and vanishing behind another towel, a bigger one, wrapped around his narrow hips. This was neither the body of a worker, nor a body-builder. No, this was the body of a dancer, a lethal and graceful duelist, a man who made other men feel fucking  _blessed_ to work for him.

It kind of annoyed Stoirm.

"Enjoying the view?" came the amused voice of the Dark Lord.

"I was, until you opened your mouth."

From his vantage point, the room looked very bare. Aside from the unmade white sheets on the large four-poster bed, he couldn't see anything else that would indicate that somebody actually slept there.

Stoirm crossed his arms, leaned on the doorframe, and brazenly studied Tom.

"I thought you'd be more muscled," he commented, adding just a hint of disappointment. The man's ego needed no more boosts.

Tom's eyebrow arched upwards.

"It seems like you've given what's underneath the Dark Lord's robes much thought," he said smugly.

"Oh, I  _know_  what's underneath the robe," Stoirm smirked. " _Really seeing_  it, on the other hand... Mind turning around for me?"

Tom stopped drying his hair and let the towel slide down his neck. He opened his arms wide and stared dully at Stoirm.

"Would you like me to do a pirouette, too?"

"Only in a proper ballet attire, my Lord. Only in a proper ballet attire." Stoirm was now sporting a full grin.

Tom sauntered towards him. The towel around his hips was riding dangerously low and his hipbones peeked above the cloth.

 _He really is too pale_ , Stoirm thought. Tom looked more like a marble statue than flesh and blood.

A hand settled on the doorknob while the other settled on the wall beside Stoirm. His nose was instantly assaulted by the strong scent of soap.

"Go play with your toys downstairs, Stoirm," Tom said, already closing the door.

Stoirm's hand flew to the wooden surface and halted it.

"What if I want to play here?" he looked up in challenge, capturing crimson eyes and not backing down.

For a snake, Tom really does have a good lion-ish, predatory smile. He leaned down, mere inches away, and the pleasant soapy smell was stronger than ever.

Stoirm licked his dry lips. Tom's eyes darted down and Stoirm gulped.

"Were you aware that fifteen is the age of consent in the Wizarding World?" Tom murmured, still looking at his lips.

He had barely processed what Tom was saying. He was busy staring at a particular droplet clinging at the end of Tom's hair - waiting for it to fall, irritated that it won't, wanting to entwine his hands in those strands, wringing them until dry - when he felt hard lips capturing his own. His mouth opened in surprise and he stayed dumbly still as a foreign tongue tasted his lips.

It all happened so fast. His eyes widened, Tom's eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, mouth on his mouth, tongue on his tongue, the taste of mint, his senses overloading, magic soaring, mint, soap,  _Tom_ , and all throughout, all  _fucking_  throughout, he was  _just. Standing. Dumbly. Still._

Not moving, not even breathing.

Completely immobile.

Before he could remedy his monumentally stupid state of monument-ation, a large hand was firmly gripping his waist, Tom was pulling back, nibbling on his ear, whispering softly-

"Playtime's over. Happy Birthday, Harry."

-and he was being pushed back, and the warmth around his waist was gone, and the door slammed shut, and he was alone.

Still standing dumbly still.

...

He walked away, feeling strangely calm. It would've made more sense if he was elated or irritated or shocked.

He wasn't even thinking about the kiss!

No, as he went down the stairs and passed the door to the study, his mind still can't move on from one thought.

 _'Tom is curly-haired,'_ he silently repeated in his head.  _'His hair is curly.'_

He snorted. Then he doubled over, laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter and waaay overdue. Sorry!


	10. Chapter 10

_2 August, 1995_

Oh, yes, Barty had been counting.

One (recently-returned) Dark Lord; nine (nervous) Death Eaters; two (clandestine) meetings a week; one new (and highly suspicious) member on the fourth meeting; seven meetings since with eleven attendees: A final count of eleven meetings, ten Death Eaters, and one Dark Lord.

Tonight there were only ten wizards in the room.

Stoirm was nowhere in sight and Barty highly doubted that he was the only one who noticed his absence. After all, the empty seat at the Dark Lord's immediate right was far from inconspicuous.

But so far, no one had asked about Stoirm.

"-recruiting members. Not that they're having much progress," Snape droned.

"The Daily Prophet's been doing a good job," Macnair mumbled and some of the others nodded in agreement.

"There's also talk of increasing guard somewhere _,"_  the Hogwarts professor pressed on, ignoring Macnair's comment. "Besides being told that it involves  _Potter_ ," here he paused, spitting the boy's last name like it left a bitter taste in his mouth. "I know nothing further about the matter. I've been deemed... unworthy of such delicate information."

Snake-like, fully-red eyes, without whites and with black slits for pupils, perused Snape. The Dark Lord probed the onyx depths, detecting lies and truths. For his part, Snape didn't blink, didn't even show any outward sign of discomfort. Lord Voldemort leaned back in his chair, seemingly satisfied.

"How about you, Lucius? How goes things at your end in the Ministry?" he hissed, gaze fleeting over the man he directed his question at.

The long-haired blonde sat up straighter in his seat.

"The Order members are getting less subtle, my Lord," Lucius answered. "They've been closely monitoring us, following us everywhere. I-" he faltered, then lowered his eyes. "I'm afraid it's getting harder to sneak away."

Lord Voldemort contemplated this bit of information. He reached for his wand and twirled it between his bone-white, spidery fingers.

Lucius flinched.

The Dark Lord's lipless mouth curved in a cruel smile before he flicked his wand at the Malfoy patriarch's direction. Lucius closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, the sound masking the subtle pop of conjuration. The previously empty long table now had ten gold coins, a galleon each for every one of them.

Barty couldn't help it - a snort escaped him. And even though it wasn't loud, it seemed very much so in the silent room.

Lucius's eyes snapped open and he glared at Barty. Then he caught the golden glint of galleons on the table and his ire was momentarily forgotten. He joined the others and looked at the Dark Lord in confusion.

"Stoirm made these." A thin hand gestured at the coins, giving them permission to examine the pieces of metal.

Barty moved first. The rest were still wary of their newest ally and they waited if anything would happen to Barty before they touched the objects themselves. Sure, these past few weeks, Stoirm wasn't as silent as he had been during his first few meetings - in fact, the Death Eaters had learned to respect this mysterious wizard who never failed to keep the Dark Lord's temper in check. But it takes more than that to make Dark wizards  _trust_  you, the feat even harder to achieve if you insist on hiding your face and using a voice-changing spell like Potter.

 _'What is he playing at?'_ Barty wondered once again as he studied the coin's protean charm. Somehow, the fact that the boy knew advanced magic didn't surprise him anymore. He held the fake galleon closer. It really  _did_  look authentic, from the intricate etchings up to the light scratches.

He was (grudgingly) impressed.

"Keep them near - it will heat up to alert you of a meeting," the Dark Lord said. "Around the edge, the serial number will change to display the time and date of our next gathering a few hours in advance. That should give you sufficient time to lose your  _pursuer._ "

Everyone was now examining the coins, seeing that nothing had happened to Barty upon contact. Goyle in particular was holding the galleon a little closer than necessary, completely hiding his right eye from view.

 _"Do not lose them,_ " the Dark Lord added in a dangerous hiss.

Goyle jerked and his coin fell, bouncing on his chin before he caught it with both hands.

"Good save," Barty sneered.

Goyle grunted. "I didn't lo-"

" _Silence._ "

Goyle's jaw clicked shut and Barty had the decency to at least look apologetic.

"We will be dropping our bi-weekly appointments in favor of more irregular _,_ unpredictable ones. Does anyone have anything  _important_  to add?"

Lord Voldemort looked each and every one of his Death Eaters square in the eyes.

"Very well."

He smoothly rose from his seat and everyone followed suit. They bowed low and shuffled towards the exit.

Everyone but Barty.

He remained rooted on the spot.

Nobody threw him a second glance and after a few seconds, it was only him and the Dark Lord in the room.

The door swung shut on its own.

"Bartemius," the Dark Lord said, managing to sound questioning and threatening at the same time.

Barty licked his lips nervously.

"Master, about Stoirm..."

* * *

 

 

> _Dear Mr Potter,_
> 
> _We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle._
> 
> _The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand._
> 
> _As you have already received an official warning for a previous offence under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks' Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m. on the twelfth of August._
> 
> _Hoping you are well,_
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_   
>  _Mafalda Hopkirk_   
>  _Improper Use of Magic Office_   
>  _Ministry of Magic_

* * *

_'Aghhh, stupid, stupid, STUPID.'_

Stoirm repeatedly hit his forehead with the heel of his palm. He watched the bright white light gallop away from him.

He turned around in a futile attempt to see something,  _anything_  that could tell him why Dementors were in Little Whinging.

' _Damnit._ '

With his wand still in hand, he closed his eyes and took a large breath.

* * *

 

 

> _Harry –_
> 
> _Dumbledore's just arrived at the Ministry and he's trying to sort it all out. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE'S HOUSE. DO NOT DO ANY MORE MAGIC. DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR WAND._
> 
> _Arthur Weasley_

* * *

"I knew that you knew, Bartemius."

"I figured as much, my Lord."

"He's on our side."

"On our side like I am or like Severus Snape?"

Before the Dark Lord could reply, a bright four-legged creature burst through the wall. The stag stood proudly in front of them and opened its mouth.

A distinctly familiar male voice poured out:

" _Was attacked by Dementors. Used registered wand. Ministry is threatening to expel me, break my wand, all that rubbish. Anyway, do not attempt to contact me. FUCKING DON'T, I'm telling you. I'm being closely watched. I doubt I'll be able to make the meetings, so... See you next year, Tom. Toodles!_ "

And then, just as fast as it came, it vanished.

The atmosphere tangibly shifted and Barty's mouth suddenly felt dry.

_'Oh I shouldn't have stayed behind.'_

* * *

 

 

> _Dear Mr Potter,_
> 
> _Further to our letter of approximately twenty-two minutes ago, the Ministry of Magic has revised its decision to destroy your wand forthwith. You may retain your wand until your disciplinary hearing on the twelfth of August, at which time an official decision will be taken._
> 
> _Following discussions with the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion will also be decided at that time. You should therefore consider yourself suspended from school pending further enquiries._
> 
> _With best wishes,_
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_   
>  _Mafalda Hopkirk_   
>  _Improper Use of Magic Office_   
>  _Ministry of Magic_

* * *

"...you have been short-listed for the  _All-England Best Kept Suburban Lawn Competition-_ '"

Harry burst into laughter.

"Couldn't they have thought of something less suspicious?" he exclaimed, browsing the contents of the letter once more.

It had been delivered that day through muggle post and he could only shake his head at the Order's transparency. They wanted the Dursleys away.

And their wish was his command.

He grinned at his relatives.

"You three are going on a trip."

* * *

Harry heard a crash in the kitchen below.

He sat bolt upright, listening intently. There was silence for a few seconds, then voices. He snatched up his wand from under his pillow and stood facing his bedroom door. Next moment, the lock gave a loud click and his door swung open.

Harry stood motionless, staring through the open doorway at the dark upstairs landing, straining his ears for further sounds, but none came. He waited for a moment, then moved swiftly and silently out of his room to the head of the stairs.

There were people standing in the shadowy hall below, silhouetted against the streetlight glowing through the glass door; eight or nine of them, all, as far as he could see, looking up at him.

"Lower your wand, boy, before you take someone's eye out," said a low, growling voice.

He knew that voice, but he did not lower his wand. "Professor Moody."

"I don't know so much about 'Professor,'" growled the voice. "Never got round to much teaching, did I? Get down here, we want to see you properly."

Harry lowered his wand slightly but did not relax his grip on it, nor did he move. He had very good reason to be suspicious. He told Tom not to contact him but the man could've sent a Moody-fied Barty again.

But before he could make a decision about what to do next, a second, slightly hoarse voice floated upstairs.

"It's all right, Harry. We've come to take you away."

Harry knew that voice, too, though he hadn't heard it for over a year. "Professor Lupin?"

"Why are we all standing in the dark?" said a third voice, this one completely unfamiliar, a woman's. " _Lumos_."

A wand-tip flared, illuminating the hall with magical light. Harry blinked. The people below were crowded around the foot of the stairs, gazing up at him intently, some craning their heads for a better look.

Remus Lupin stood nearest to him. He was smiling broadly at Harry, who tried to smile back.

"Oooh, he looks just like I thought he would," said the witch who was holding her lit wand aloft. She looked the youngest there; she had a pale heart-shaped face, dark twinkling eyes, and short spiky hair that was a violent shade of violet. "Wotcher, Harry!"

He bit back a sneer.

"Yeah, I see what you mean, Remus," said a bald black wizard standing furthest back – he had a deep, slow voice and wore a single gold hoop in his ear – "he looks exactly like James."

' _Calm, calm, calm. Water flowing, birds chirping..._ '

"Except the eyes," said a wheezy-voiced, silver-haired wizard at the back. "Lily's eyes."

' _...chirp..._ '

Moody, who had long grizzled grey hair and a large chunk missing from his nose, was squinting suspiciously at Harry through his mismatched eyes.

"Are you quite sure it's him, Lupin?" he growled. "It'd be a nice lookout if we bring back some Death Eater impersonating him. We ought to ask him something only the real Potter would know. Unless anyone brought any Veritaserum?"

"Harry, what form does your Patronus take?" Lupin asked.

" _'Something only the real Potter would know,'_ " Harry mockingly repeated in his head.

"A stag," he answered.

Lupin smiled at him.

"That's him, Mad-Eye."

_'Merlin's beard. I'm surrounded by idiots.'_

* * *

"Here," Alastor Moody said, pushing a piece of parchment towards Harry's hand and holding his lit wand close to it, so as to illuminate the writing. "Read quickly and memorize."

Harry looked down at the piece of paper. The narrow handwriting was vaguely familiar. It said:

_The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London_

He stifled his smile.

The "secret" headquarters wasn't so secret anymore.

Tom would be pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop, Hogwarts!
> 
> I'm trying to follow canon so if some parts sound familiar, that's probably because I copied it from the book. (I claim nothing)
> 
> Btw, to those who have taken the time to read this so far - you guys are much appreciated. Really. Thank you!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> News Flash # 1: UPDATE (Yay!)  
> News Flash # 2: I'm abandoning this fic.  
> ...  
> I know, I know, some of you had inquired about the status of WISC before, and I had replied with a sure 'Oh no, it's merely on hold. It's not abandoned.' Buuut, guess what? Now the hold is off (haha is that even an expression?). Anyway, I apologize for not ending something I had started. This chapter is the final one, and I'm including in it all the left-over scenes in my draft. Forgive the disjointed flow!

**_6 August, 1995 - 12 Grimmauld Place, London_ **

_'Great Merlin, she's still talking. Does she even breathe?'_

Harry made a silent promise then not to annoy Tom with his random ramblings anymore. If he sounded half - hell, even just a _quarter_ \- as ear-splittingly irritating as Hermione Granger did at the moment, he could only be surprised that Tom hasn't killed him off yet.

"-but we couldn't tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn't, oh, we've got so much to tell you, and you've got things to tell us–"

Really, talk about _unstoppable_.

"-they can't expel you, they just can't, there's - Harry? Is - is there dirt on my face?"

"Hmm?" Harry hummed, taking a beat to re-focus on the conversation. He inwardly berated himself for staring too intently while outwardly forcing a smile on his face. "Er, yeah, just right," he guided Hermione's hand to the corner of her mouth, "there."

 _'With the amount of nonsense that she spouts, it really is a surprise she doesn't have actual dirt pouring out of her mouth,'_ whispered a voice in Harry's head - a voice that, he might add, sounded a _lot_ like Tom.

 _'Great,'_ Harry thought tiredly. This was supposed to be a vacation away from the Dark Lord, and-

 _'I_ am _great, aren't I.'_

now he was hosting imagined conversations inside his head, _with_ his personal representation of the very man he was avoiding.

Before he could come to terms with his newly-acquired overactive mental dialogue, there was another voice - but this time an actual, real voice outside the confines of his imagination - and Ron appeared, and Harry was being hugged-

And then Fred and George _apparated_ in front of him-

And Hermione was talking again-

And so was the Tom in Harry's head-

And everything was just so much more chaotic than normal, everyone was expecting answers -

Right.

Harry figured that _if_ he wasn't insane yet, then he definitely would be by the time the night ended.

It was going to be a _looong_ summer.

* * *

_'Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?' said Madam Bones's booming voice._

_Harry's head jerked upwards. There were hands in the air, many of them … he tried to count, but before he could finish, Madam Bones had said, 'And those in favour of conviction?'_

_Fudge raised his hand; so did half a dozen others, including the witch on his right and the heavily-moustached wizard and the frizzy-haired witch in the second row._

_Fudge glanced around at them all, looking as though there was something large stuck in his throat, then lowered his own hand. He took two deep breaths and said, in a voice distorted by suppressed rage, 'Very well, very well … cleared of all charges.'_

* * *

**_1 September, 1995 - Hogwarts Castle, Somewhere in Scotland_ **

Harry had just stepped into the Great Hall when he _felt,_ rather than saw _,_ something off with the students.

It took him a moment to place exactly what it was, but once he did, he wondered why no one had remedied or even noticed it yet.

Instead of the the booming sounds of laughter and chatter that had been a constant in every Start-of-Term Feast Harry had ever attended, a more subdued, buzzing air hung over the house tables. Students were huddled together, whispering wildly among themselves and occasionally sneaking glances - ones that they probably deemed subtle but really weren't - at the Professors' platform.

 _'Ah,'_ Harry thought with sudden realization, fighting off a smirk. What with the Wizengamot hearing and living with so many people over the summer, he had almost forgotten about _that_. If the plans had proceeded smoothly...

Harry followed the students' line of sight, the corners of his mouth trembling with suppressed laughter, and -

He almost stumbled on his feet.

Sitting there on the seat reserved for the Defense Professor, was an _albino man_. A very calm and composed and not-at-all-like-he-was-being-examined-by-every-student-in-the-Great-Hall albino man. With ridiculously light hair that would cower even the patented Malfoy platinum, he practically stuck out like a sore thumb - even more so since Hagrid wasn't present. He was currently speaking with Snape, who seemed ( _Could Harry's eyes be mistaken?)_ less grumpy than usual. He looked positively pleased, even! Harry suddenly couldn't decide then which sight the students really were gawking at.

"Mate?"

Ron's voice pierced his thoughts, and Harry realized that he had stopped walking. Some of the attention had now shifted on him, and he could feel the stares quickly increasing. He bowed his head down and tried to ignore the prickling on the back of his neck as he jogged along the central aisle to catch up with the others. He moved to sit between Hermione and Ron, but he hadn't fully settled on the bench yet when Hermione sharply nudged his side.

"Who's _that_?" she softly asked, her eyes on the staff table.

Now that Harry was closer to the platform, he was finally able to have a proper look at the new teacher.

The man looked tall, even when seated. He had the delicate features of Nobility - cheekbones, thin lips and all that jazz - and he could very well be a Pureblood Lord, judging by the fine quality of his robes. He cut a striking figure, that was for certain. Although, Harry had to admit that the most striking thing about this man were his eyes. Even the distance couldn't the fact that they were red as wine - exactly the same shade of -

"Doesn't he look like You-Know-Who?" Ron said in an unsuccessfully quiet voice.

Everyone nearby seemed to tilt their head a bit in their direction to wait for Harry's answer.

"You mean," Harry replied in a comical whisper, "minus the hair - not to mention the nose?" He paused, exaggeratedly pointing at those specific parts of his face. "Yeah, you've got a Dark Lord."

A smattering of snickers resounded, and someone down the table whistled.

"I wouldn't mind joining the Dark Side if he was You-Know-Who," a female voice far up Harry's right said.

"Neither would I."

"Nor I," said another voice, male this time.

"Are you for _real?_ "

Before anyone could know whether they were "for _real_ " or not, Professor McGonagall entered the Great Hall with a long line of nervous-looking first-years behind her. She placed the Sorting Hat on a stool in front of the staff table and that year's new students hurried along in front of the platform.

All the noise and chatter slowly faded away.

As the Sorting Hat started singing and proceeded to command all the others' attention, Harry snuck another glance at the new professor. Green eyes narrowed when they were met with smug red. The new professor didn't maintain the eye contact for long, but as Harry watched him take a drink, he couldn't help but suspect that the older man was hiding a smirk behind the goblet.

* * *

As soon as the dinner had ended, Harry excused himself from his Housemates, then got to work. With the help of the Marauder's Map and his Invisibility Cloak, he easily followed the new professor along the halls of Hogwarts. He stared at the seemingly inconspicuous pair of feet in the map representing the very man he was shadowing, and Harry found himself wanting to scream in frustration at the name underneath it: _'Thomas Magine'_.

 _'I can't believe this,'_ Harry thought, fuming.

For the lack of a better course of action, he focused on not losing sight of the figure ahead. He waited for them to be out of anyone's way, and as soon as Professor _Magine_ reached a deserted corridor, Harry closed in on him.

 _*Why are you here?*_ he lowly hissed, still invisible.

Magine stopped in his tracks and turned towards the source of the sound. For a few seconds, he was still, as if he merely heard a strange sound and was curious to know where it had come from. He looked quite innocent - until he smirked. Harry then simply knew that his suspicions were spot-on.

 _*I was bored,*_ Magine, no - _Tom_ hissed in reply.

Harry immediately erected every privacy ward he could muster, every disillusionment charm. After all the wandwork, he removed his cloak and glared at the older man.

"Thomas Magine," Harry loudly enunciated. " _Magine!"_

"I missed you, too, darling," the red-eyed man drawled.

Harry ignored him and continued, " _Enigma_ \- is that the best you can do? What the _fuck_ is it with you and anagrams?"

Tom shrugged lightly. "I'm hiding in plain sight. Dumbledore wouldn't expect suspicious Professor Thomas ' _Tom'_ Magine to be... well, _me,_ would he?"

Harry tugged at his hair. "You know, for someone who hates the name Tom, you use it an _awful_ lot."

Tom arched a brow. "Really," he drawled. "And who, pray tell, told you I hated my name?"

Like a flame abruptly snuffed, Harry halted in his tirade.

Who _did_ tell him?

The answer came to him in a snap, and he groaned. "Dumbledore."

Tom simply waved a hand, as if saying _'There you go.'_

"But," Harry piped up, immediately curious, "why would you drop your birth name if you didn't hate it?"

"'The Dark Lord Tom' doesn't exactly strike terror into the hearts of everyone, Harry," Tom said as he rolled his eyes.

Harry was about to retort when Tom leaned close.

"Besides," he whispered next to his ear. "Would you scream 'Voldemort' in bed? 'Tom' rolls off the tongue _much_ more smoothly. Don't you think so, _Mr. Potter_?"

* * *

**EXTRAS:**

**#1**

**Riddle Manor (Chapter 8.5)**

"Hey, Tom?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm bored."

"Hmm."

"I want to play a game."

Tom looked up from the book on his lap and stared dully at the boy lounging on the couch opposite his. It was sunny and they were in the manor's parlor for a change.

"Alright," Tom said after what seemed like a moment of careful deliberation. He knitted his brows, then snapped his fingers. "Let's play 'How long can Harry Potter shut his goddamn mouth?'"

Tom pointedly stared at him for a second, daring him to protest. Stoirm rolled his eyes but didn't say anything - which seemed to satisfy Tom. He returned to practically burying his nose into the book he was previously so fixated with, effectively vanishing behind it.

For a moment, only the ticking of the clock and the rustling of paper could be heard.

For a moment, that is.

"Not for long, apparently," Stoirm answered, grinning.

Tom put his book down.

"Why don't you just pick a book and read in peace?" he asked in exasperation, waving a hand vaguely at the direction of the library.

Stoirm clucked his tongue in contemplation. "I don't feel like reading at the moment."

"Then let me have my peace."

The other boy gasped and held a hand to his chest. "The Dark Lord, asking for peace? I must be dreaming."

Tom arched his brow. "Because all the Dark Lord cares for is world domination and unnecessary bloodshed."

Stoirm laughed. "You forgot Dumbledore on a stake."

"Ah, of course. And the Boy-Who-Lived on his knees, kissing my feet."

Stoirm's brows disappeared behind his fringe. He had to purse his lips to stop them from curling up in amusement.'Ooh, you've dug your own grave,' he thought gleefully.

"We can do that anytime, you know," he suggested innocently with a shrug.

Tom swung his legs down the couch and faced Stoirm fully. Without a word, he put his left foot on top of the coffee table between them. Then he leaned back on his seat and crossed his arms, eyebrow raised, as if asking "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Stoirm looked taken aback and Tom watched as a pink tinge spread on the boy's cheeks. It would seem that even after all his 'sexual advances' on Tom, he was still a child - which Tom found oddly amusing.

He could end this game now, if he wanted, but he found himself still enjoying keeping Stoirm on his toes.

He would end the game - not now, but perhaps soon.

Tom put his foot down and returned to his book.

Stoirm's head jerked up.

"What, scared that things could get heaty?"

Tom snorted. "Snakes enjoy the heat. I can't say the same about lions."

"Good thing there are no lions here, then."

"Of course," Tom said, not looking up from the text.

"And I can kiss your feet."

"Of course you can. Now stop sulking."

"I'm not sulking, you patronizing bastard."

"Of course you aren't."

"Ohgoddamnit-"

"Where are you going?"

"I'm getting a book," Stoirm said through gritted teeth as he marched away in the direction of the library.

Tom went back to his book and enjoyed the silence.

**-o-**

**#2**

**(NOTE: This scene should take place in the supposedly not-so-far-off future, when Tom and Harry are finally on more... personal terms.**

**WARNING: A tiny splash of lemon dashed with shame - coming right up)**

_**Gryffindor-Slytherin Match - Gryffindor Quidditch Locker Room** _

"I've been hearing stories, Mr Potter."

"Dare I ask which ones?"

"Hmmm..." Tom hummed, so close that Harry could feel the vibrations in his chest. "One particular story stuck with me... Something... Involving... a snitch..." he whispered, marking every pause with a nip at the column of Harry's throat.

"Blimey," Harry muttered, distracted. He was finding it hard to focus on anything else besides the sharp tang of spicy aftershave. Nevertheless, he tried to gather his wits and form at least one coherent sentence. "Are they still talking about that?" his last word came out as a gasp as Tom licked the line of his jaw.

"The grapevine tells me... that you nearly swallowed one?"

"Tom," Harry said sharply, head suddenly clear again, "if you are going where I think you're going with this, I'll-"

"You'll what?"

Harry had to stop talking when he felt cold metal touch his lips. His stomach tightened at once - whether in irritation or excitement, he wasn't quite sure.

"Come on, Mr Potter. Tell me what you'd do," Tom purred, tracing the golden snitch along the curve of his lower lip. Harry made a move to shove Tom off, but Tom easily caught both his wrists with his free hand and slammed them on the wall right above his head. Still, Harry was unwilling to back down. He attempted to stomp on Tom's foot, but the taller wizard just pressed his leg against his own to keep him in place. All that Tom did without so much as lifting the snitch a hairsbreadth off his lips.

"Stay still," Tom ordered, eyes almost sparkling.

Harry moved his face away but the fingers holding the snitch to his lips slid to grip his jaw in place. The tiny gold sphere was still there - in fact, it was pressed even firmer against the seam of his lips by Tom's index finger.

"This might possibly be the longest time you've shut up in my presence."

"I suppose all those Death Eater meetings were merely fragments of my imagination," Harry said through gritted teeth. "Has your age finally caught up with you and made you senile, _my Lord_?" Tom used the opportunity to drive the snitch inside his mouth but only found the gold sphere clashing with teeth.

"Say 'Ah.'"

"Fuck _off_ , you sick bastard."

Tom's eyes flashed.

"I'll take this as a challenge, then."

Tom tugged hard at the neck of his sweater and, without warning, bit down at the exposed skin of his shoulder.

It _fucking_ hurt.

Harry knew he was bleeding, and there was just no fucking no way that he wouldn't catch rabies, because it was clear that Tom was a fucking rabid animal, and it was all so stupid, and he was like a dam about to burst-

It just really fucking hurt.

But Harry would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it just a tiny bit. Or maybe a lot, judging by the familiar fluttering feeling in his gut and the faint stirring in his pants. He might have moaned, he wasn't sure, but the next thing he knew, the snitch was _in_ his mouth, and Tom's hand was covering his mouth, preventing him from spitting the snitch out.

"Very good," Tom purred, looking very pleased indeed.

 _'Just like a fucking cat,_ ' Harry vehemently thought.

"Since you love games so much, I have one for you," Tom explained. "The rules are simple. When you're done _preparing_ that snitch, I'm going to put it inside you _._ "

Tom's intense gaze left no room for misinterpretation. Harry would have gulped then, if not for the fear of choking on the ball of metal in his mouth.

"Now, here's the fun part," Tom added, suggesting that maybe what he was going to say next wasn't so fun at all. "If you, the Gryffindor seeker, manages to catch the snitch in play during the match, _even_ with this minor inconvenience... I'll do anything you want for a day."

Harry stopped breathing. His feelings on the matter must have bled through, because Tom laughed.

"Don't get excited just yet," he commented. " _Because,_ if Gryffindor loses, then you'll do everything I want for a day. Deal?" Tom asked as he finally lifted his hand off Harry's mouth.

Harry spit the snitch on his hand, then arched a brow at Tom.

"Well?" he intoned dully. "Should I put it in myself, or would you care to do the honors?"

Tom smiled slowly, then dutifully leaned closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point we have Tom and Harry at advantageous positions in Hogwarts; Tom could finally poison/teach impressionable young minds, and Harry, well, could continue doing what he had been doing before.
> 
> Sooo, this fic was my first one (as you could probably gather, judging by the utter inexperience practically bleeding from the very words gaah). WISC was mostly a sandbox for me to play in, not an actual project, and I seriously had no idea where the whole thing would lead.
> 
> As for the ending, just... imagine a big, fluffy happy ending wherein "Lord Voldemort" disappears and a new influential political figure (Thomas Magine) rises in the Ministry with Harry as his friend/partner/endorser/whateveryouwant.
> 
> IMAGINATION IS KEY.
> 
> Okay, I'm out.
> 
> Thank youuu!


End file.
